


Consequences of Flirting

by wholockedphanout



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, POV Jim Moriarty, Panic Attacks, Student Jim, Teacher Sherlock, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockedphanout/pseuds/wholockedphanout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is in his last year of high school. He'd managed to get this far with minimal drama, largely due to the fact that he had no friends.</p>
<p>This meant that he had no one around to tell him that flirting had consequences.</p>
<p>Especially when it was with a teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"And up until now I have sworn to myself_

_That I'm content with loneliness,_

_Because none of it was ever worth the risk."_

_\- The Only Exception_

_Paramore_

**Jim's POV**

The house next to mine is up for sale.

I notice this and many other unimportant things as I make my way to school. It was the first day of my last year which meant I'd soon be out of that hell hole. I couldn't wait. It wasn't that I hated school, it was that it was incredibly boring. I already knew half the things they taught us so, in theory, there was really no point in me attending. But no, my mother insists I go. I seriously question that woman sometimes.

This is usually the part in which I'd inform you on my horrible backstory. Like my brother dying due to a terrible toaster related incident or that I get beaten within an inch of my life at school for being gay. Unfortunately, I have nothing to say on that front. I say unfortunately because, if my life was to be made into a film, it would be incredibly boring. I am one of the single most uninteresting, unremarkable people currently alive on the planet. I mean, my father died before I was born but that didn't really have any effect on me considering I never met him. From what I've gathered, I don't feel emotions like everyone else. Whilst others cry, I laugh it off. That's just the way I've always been.

Unlike most openly gay pupils, I get left alone by bullies. Most people just kind of ignore my existence. This means that I don't have many, if any, friends. Contrary to popular belief, I'm actually alright with this. Friends are over rated anyway. Too much hassle. Too much drama. Besides, I could quite easily get some if I wanted them. In fact, a lot of the girls want me to be their best friend. They were practically throwing themselves at me when I came out. I don't understand people's obsession with wanting a gay best friend. Just because we like the same gender doesn't automatically entitle you to make me your friend. I didn't suddenly have the urge to go dress shopping or to have a girls night in. I am still Jim Moriarty. My sexuality doesn't change the fact that I'm a self-centred prick.

Silently putting on my headphones, I blasted out "Teenagers" by My Chemical Romance. I like the idea of scaring the shit out of someone, maybe even everyone. How great would it be to know that your name sends shivers down a grown man's spine? To have people fear you and see you as a threat? The song made me feel powerful as if I could bring the world to their knees if I tried.

Obviously, my confidence was shattered as soon as I walked through the school gates.

I trudged into school and into my usual room for registration. I took my usual seat in the back right corner and reluctantly pulled out my headphones. The room still looked the same - dull, white walls covered in, what the teachers like to call, "inspiring" posters. The one next to me literally says, "You can either have results or banter. Not both.". I don't entirely know what its purpose is.

The bell rang and the rest of my class filed in. After the obligatory speech - "This year will be the most important year for you. No pressure" - the actual lessons began. Unsurprisingly, they were uneventful. Well, that was up until my last lesson - science. Not to sound cocky or anything, but I'm good at science. When I say good, I mean that I'm better than everyone else in my class. Not that that's exactly a hard accomplishment.

As I walked in the classroom, I overheard a few girls discussing the new teacher that, if I'm honest, I didn't previously know we were getting. Apparently he was, and these were their exact words, "well fit". When did "fit" become an adjective to describe someone attractive? Was it just a British thing?

Soon after I'd sat down, our teacher waltzed into the room. Everyone fell silent as all eyes fixed on him. I had to admit, he was attractive. Who am I kidding? He was extremely attractive. In fact, he was so attractive that he could hit me with a truck and, honestly, I would thank him for the privilege.

After he'd introduced himself as "Mr Holmes", all the girls began flirting. None of them seemed to be successful in getting his attention which amused me greatly. It was then that I decided to have a little fun of my own. If he wasn't interested in the girls flirting, maybe he preferred men. I wanted to know how he would react to me flirting with him. It might help to make the lessons more interesting and besides, what was the worst thing that could happen?

_I could fall in love with him and realise that he could never love me back._

Pfft, like that was going to happen. I didn't fall in love easily and, if I did, it wouldn't be with my science teacher.

He explained the, relatively easy, task to us and took a seat at his desk which just so happened to be a meter or so away from mine. That's when I chose to strike.

"Sir?" I asked just loud enough for him to hear. He turned to face me and I was momentarily caught off guard by his beauty. To mask this, I placed my elbow on the table and ran my hand through my perfectly gelled hair. I kept my hand on the side of my head and used my elbow to prop myself up.

"Yes..." He asked as if he was searching for my name.

I decided to help him along, "Jim."

"Jim." He repeated.

I licked my lips as he bit his.

"I don't understand the work. Can you help me?" He agreed and walked over to my desk. I smirked to myself as I watched the girls fill with jealousy. Jim: 1 Girls: 0.

Holmes placed his hands on either side of my desk and hovered over me. Without letting my brave facade falter for a second, I pointed out the parts I "didn't get" (although I understood them perfectly well). He explained with ease, his smile never leaving his face. He knelt down so he was now at my level and I couldn't help but notice how much more beautiful his features were up close. Neither of us said anything for a while making the moment feel a lot more intimate. I knew it wasn't or, at least, wasn't supposed to be. He was just explaining the work. Nothing more. I immediately told myself not to get my hopes up to avoid disappointment. Keep your distance. Don't fall in love. Don't make friends.

Avoid getting hurt.

At some point, Mr Holmes returned to his desk. The lesson passed slowly after that. I still stole some occasional glances and, in return, gave him a few winks. I noticed that each time he caught me looking at him, he looked down almost nervously. I loved the colour his cheeks turned as he purposefully tried to avoid eye contact with me.

The bell rang for the last time that day and we all left the classroom. Of course, I made sure I was the last one to leave, sending a final wink to my new teacher as I left the room. I was right.

This _was_ going to be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Never thought that I would feel like this_   
_Such a mess when I'm in your presence."_

_\- My House_   
_Pvris_

About 3 weeks into the school term, things began to get interesting. I'd discovered two important facts about Mr Holmes: His name and his relationship status. He was single, which was a bonus. Admittedly, I probably should have found that out before I began flirting. However, he actually seemed to be flirting back meaning that I was now paying no attention in his lessons. Don't get me wrong, I found them entertaining, just probably not in the way he had planned.

It was actually just last week that I finally got him to tell me his first name - Sherlock. I like it. I mean, it's original but not too strange that it's off-putting. It suited him well.

We had just finished our experiment when the bell decided to make another scheduled appearance. All the other students left to go to lunch whereas I stayed put. I wasn't exactly sure why. I suppose I wasn't ready to leave just yet. No one would be waiting for me anyway.

Sherlock looked over at me from his desk, "Jim?"

"Need help with the equipment?" I asked, purposefully avoiding eye contact by looking around at all the test tubes that littered the tables. I lifted up the bottle closest to me and read the label to give me something to do.

"You offering?"

I suddenly found myself staring at the bottle in my hand as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. I began to pick up more equipment, still refusing to look at my teacher. There seemed to be some kind of tension between us which made any one on one situation uncomfortable.

I leant across the table to pick up a Bunsen Burner, not realising that Sherlock was going for the same one. As if it was planned, we both made a grab at the object, our hands meeting at the base. I looked at the hand on top of mine and my breath hitched. I was pretty sure I felt the electricity writers describe but it was most likely just my inner teenage girl taking control. I raised my head slowly and our eyes met.

Neither of us moved and I asked myself a question:  _What would bad ass Jim do in this situation?_  Bad ass Jim was the name I'd given my confident persona - the one that always seemed to appear around Mr Holmes at one point or another. The answer to my question was simple. I had to turn the situation into something I could easily use against him.

I gripped the Bunsen Burner tighter bringing Sherlock back to reality. He retracted his hand quickly, coughing nervously. I smirked at him and he returned to his desk, embarrassed. Seeing as it was the last piece of equipment, I carelessly threw it into a cupboard and followed my teacher. I pulled up a chair and joined him. He said nothing.

"Don't you have friends you should be hanging out with?" He asked, watching me closely.

I simply laughed at his comment as if to say, "Are you serious?" and popped a piece of chewing gum into my mouth. To my surprise, Sherlock found this amusing.

"What?" I asked, slightly irritated that he hadn't reacted to my previous actions in the way I'd hoped.

Sherlock continued to laugh.

"What?" I made sure that the frustration was clear in my voice this time.

Once he'd pulled himself together he casually mentioned, "You're not allowed gum in school," and, with a smile permanently fixed on his face, he lifted up the bin from under his desk, indicating for me to dispose of my gum. Scowling, I gave in. I stuck my tongue out childishly which only made him laugh more. I'm glad he found my attempt at flirting so bloody funny.

I couldn't stop thinking about the hand touching, though. If I hadn't done something, how long would we have remained that way? A few seconds? Minutes? Longer?

"What you thinking about?" Sherlock asked unexpectedly.

"You."

Shit. I'd said that out loud, hadn't I.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. His face was pretty much neutral, as if he hadn't heard me. Although I knew, somehow, that he had.

"Wait, no! That's not - I didn't mean..." I didn't know who I was trying to convince.

Mr Holmes didn't say anything after that. I avoided starting conversation but didn't stop admiring him silently. I refused to give him the upper hand. I refused to show that I was embarrassed - that's what bad ass Jim would do.

Holmes occasionally looked at me out of the corner of his eye and laughed, most likely at my stupidity. There was something about the way he laughed that made me unexplainably happy. Both the corner of his eyes and the top of his nose crinkled which made my heart flutter in my chest. He was just so freaking beautiful and I doubt he even noticed. If I had a face like his, I'd constantly be admiring myself in the mirror.

I don't think I'd ever felt this way about someone before. God, I was a mess. I had prided myself on not allowing my life to become as predictable as a young adult novel but, with my current way of thinking, I seemed to be heading down that route.

Lunch soon ended and I wasn't sure whether or not I was happy about this. On one hand, I wanted to get out of that room as soon as possible to avoid any more mistakes of my behalf whereas on the other hand, I desperately wanted to stay with Sherlock.

I stood up to leave and realised my teachers eyes were on me the whole time. Once I reached the door, I paused for a moment before turning to face Mr Holmes.

"Catch you later, Sir." I said slowly, adding emphasis on each word. I then proceeded to pull out another piece of gum and place it on my tongue, much to Holmes' frustration. With a wink, I left, fully aware that Sherlock's eyes were on me the whole time. I noticed that I'd been winking too much for my liking. Sherlock probably thought I had a nervous twitch.

_Note to self: stop the winking._


	3. Chapter 3

_"If you're gonna be the death of me,_   
_that's how I wanna go"_

_\- Collar Full_   
_Panic! At The Disco_

Soon enough, I found myself spending every single lunchtime with Sherlock. It sort of became our own personal ritual. I went to his classroom at lunch and he attempted to mark his pupil's work whilst I sat around and distracted him. Not that he ever complained about me being there. If I didn't know better, I'd say he enjoyed my company. 

He was like the best friend I'd never had. Well, a best friend that I constantly imagined making out with. Was that normal in friendships? I didn't exactly have any experience in that department. 

It was nearing the end of the school term meaning I'd have to endure two weeks with only my mother to keep me company. I say endure because it really would be that painful. There was only so much gardening talk I could suffer. Frankly, I couldn't care less about what types of vegetables grew well this time of year. I couldn't even tell the difference between different types of flowers. 

Anyway, today was no exception. I traipsed into Sherlock's room at lunch, smiling inwardly to myself. His classroom was basically my second home. Actually, I'd go as far as saying I preferred it to my real home. Although the cabinets were filled with hazardous chemicals and there were periodic table posters blue tacked onto the otherwise clear, white walls, the room felt more like a secret hangout than a place to learn the fundamentals of science. It was like mine and Sherlock's secret lunchtime hideaway. Like a party only we were invited to. A club with only two members. Our secret den. 

_God, I really loved lunchtimes._

"Hello sir." I purred, making him turn in his seat to face me. 

"Hey." He replied cheerfully, walking over to me with arms wide. I slowed down my walking slightly, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. He wrapped his arms around me, something I hadn't been anticipating, and I froze. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been hugged, let alone by a teacher. 

I made sure I didn't appear startled for long, though, as that would ruin bad ass Jim's reputation. I wrapped my arms around his waist cautiously, in fear of him pulling away, and buried my head in his shoulder lightly. 

Although it sounds incredibly cliché, his arms made me feel safe. Strong, even. Although oddly, I felt like a child again. I never usually received hugs. Perhaps sometimes I really needed one. 

_Not that I'd ever admit that, obviously._

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled back, realising where we were, but showed no signs of regretting his actions. There was a somewhat awkward silence as we both tried to comprehend what had just happened. I mean, I know I said we were like best friends, I just didn't realise we were that close. 

"Why are you in such a good mood?" I asked, desperately trying to normalise the situation.

Mr Holmes simply ushered me over to his desk, without answering my question. I took my usual seat diagonal from his. Without warning, he reached into a drawer and pulled out two plastic tubs full of, what appeared to be, pasta. After passing one to me, Sherlock opened his own. I chose to copy him. 

Everything had suddenly began moving so unexpectedly fast, none of it making any sense. It was as if I had been on a treadmill, gently jogging throughout my life - taking my time and not rushing into things. Then someone (i.e. Sherlock) came along out of the blue and put it on full speed, without informing me, therefore making me fly off backwards, breaking my nose and probably making everyone around me laugh in the process. That's how I felt. I was going to fly off the treadmill because of Sherlock. All because of Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Okay, I'll admit I'm not good at similes. 

"Hang on." He muttered, grabbing a Bunsen Burner off the side. After setting it alight, he placed it between us, the flame dancing in the air. Admittedly, it was a nerdy attempt at romance but it practically screamed Sherlock. 

_Romance? Was that what this was?_

I scratched the back of my neck whilst smiling appreciatively, "What's this all for?" 

He smirked at me over the fire, "Not entirely sure." He paused, "Do I have to have a reason?"

I shrugged, bitting into a piece of pasta, silently wishing he'd explain. 

"I suppose it's a thank you."

I swallowed, "For what?"

"Keeping me company. Making me feel welcome. Generally being great. I don't know..."

Satisfied with the provided answer and blushing slightly due to his comments, I quietly continued to enjoy my lunch. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked on something - I wanted to ask what but chose against it. He let out an irritated sigh which only made me more intrigued. 

Noticing I was watching him, Sherlock looked at me and shrugged, "The property I was looking at buying has already been sold." This seemed like an odd subject to discuss with a teenager. I mean, it wasn't as if I had any experience in marketing. I didn't know any good locations or houses to buy or... 

Wait a second. 

"I know a house that's on offer." I suggested. He asked for details and I gave him the address of the house next to mine. My mind immediately started racing. What if Sherlock moved next door to me? A smile edged its way onto my face. Who said the flirting had to end after school? The possibilities were endless. For example, I could 'accidentally' leave the curtains open so he could watch me getting changed. 

_Why the hell was that the first thing I thought of?_

I checked the clock on the wall, determined not to let the bell interrupt something important, as it had done many times before. 5 minutes. What could happen in 5 minutes? 

"Have you ever been a relationship, Jim?" 

I coughed dramatically, almost choking on a piece of pasta, "What?" 

Sherlock repeated his question patiently, "Have you ever been in a relationship?" 

I thought momentarily although there was no real point. I already knew the answer. It wasn't exactly as if I had a buzzing social life. I literally had no friends - that's why I spent all my free time with Sherlock. What exactly were the chances of me being in a relationship? 

"Um... N-no." 

"You haven't been hugged in a while, have you?" 

I shrugged sadly, realising that the previous hug had probably been a one off. It was probably just a stupid experiment. It honestly wouldn't surprise me. Stupid science teachers and their stupid experiments.

Assuming my response meant no, Sherlock added, "Thought not. You tensed up, as predicted." 

_It was an experiment then._

"Or maybe I just wasn't expecting my teacher to hug me." I snapped, angry at myself for being so naive.

Sherlock quickly held his hands up in surrender, "Whoa! Sorry, Jim, I didn't mean to upset you. I just..." 

I sighed, immediately calming myself down. I wasn't angry at Sherlock, not really. I believed him when he said that he didn't mean to upset me. That wasn't his intention. He wouldn't do that, would he? Doubt had already implanted itself on my mind. Perhaps I didn't know as much about my teacher as I thought I did. 

"It's fine, it's fine." I assured him, "It's just... Who would want to date me? I mean, look at me." 

He did. He looked at me very closely, as if he was investigating every inch of my being.

The bell rang and I desperately wanted to ignore it. 

"You'd be surprised." Sherlock muttered under his breath and I wasn't sure I was supposed to hear it.


	4. Chapter 4

_"They say that love is forever,_  
_Your forever is all that I need."_

 _-_ _If I'm James Dean, You're Audrey Hepburn_  
_Sleeping With Sirens_

Tomorrow night is parents evening which basically means that parents, or in my case parent, have to attend a short meeting with each of their child's teachers. This usually occurs at the end of the year but, due to exams, they're holding them the day right before half term. Pupils are encouraged to attend but my mother usually forces me to go. I don't mind as such, it's just that I wasn't exactly looking forward to her meeting my science teacher. 

Speaking of my science teacher, where the fuck was he? He wasn't usually late to lessons... Well, there was the odd occasion. No ones perfect, right? 

Perhaps he got caught in the storm that I'd expertly managed to avoid. When I say avoid, I mean reaching the school just as the clouds decided to give up and release their contents. I fiddled with my slightly damp shirt nervously. Where was he? 

I quickly glanced at the raindrops that covered the entirety of the window pane before diverting my attention to the clock on the wall. He was nearly 10 minutes late. I seemed to be the only student, however, who actually cared. The others were chatting amongst themselves, some louder than others. The loudest voices, I noted, were talking about me. Ironically, the girls behind me were the ones who were talking about me behind my back. 

"Aww, look at little Jim," One of the girls began mockingly, "He's worried about poor Mr Holmes."

I clenched my fists under the table.

"Probably because he's got a crush on him." Another girl joined in. They started laughing although nothing they had said was funny in any way. I don't mean that in a it's-not-funny-because-you're-being-mean-to-me way, I mean it genuinely wasn't even mildly humorous. 

The door burst open and Sherlock rushed in, dripping wet. My breath hitched in my throat as I admired every inch of his body. His white shirt stuck to his surprisingly toned body, resting on his skin. It was practically transparent, much to my delight. My eyes independently trailed down to his trousers, which were tighter that usual, if that was even possible, due to the rain. I was suddenly finding it incredibly hard to breathe with all the completely inappropriate fantasies I'd somehow managed to create within a few seconds. I'm pretty sure all the things my mind managed to come up with were illegal. I bit my lip. Shit, I was being turned on by my teacher. 

"Sorry I'm late guys." He muttered so fast that I could barely decipher it. Running a hand through his soaked hair, he sat down at his desk, completely unaware of the torture he was putting me through. 

I was finding it increasingly hard to focus throughout the lesson. No matter where I looked, my eyes were always redirected to him. I felt a strange tingly feeling travel around my body. It was like more aggressive version of butterflies. I crossed my legs, shuffling uncomfortably. Don't get me wrong, I didn't entirely dislike the feeling... 

When the bell finally rang to indicate the end of the lesson, I practically ran towards the door. I knew I wouldn't be able to stand one more second in that room without wanting to rip Sherlock's shirt off. 

"Jim?" My teacher called out, "Can I talk to you for a second?" 

I paused, mentally composing myself. I waited for the door to close before answering, "What is it?"

He ushered me over to where he was currently sitting, his desk. I pulled up and chair and sat down, forcing my eyes to look at his face instead of anywhere else. In theory, we could do anything and it would remain between us, this room and this desk. I began to weigh out the possibility of something happening. 

"I can't help but notice that your grades have dropped significantly." He said, barely above a whisper. It was really a long winded way of saying that I'm failing. 

"What? But that can't be right..." I trailed off. 

Sherlock pulled a piece of paper out of his desk drawer and held it upright. He looked at me over the top sadly and placed it down for me to see. I hesitated for a moment before spinning the paper so it was facing me. It was only then that I realised what the paper was - my most recent test. More specifically, my most recent test with a big fat F in the corner. 

"Is it that you don't understand the subject?"

_No, it's that I'm constantly daydreaming about you._

I shook my head.

"Do you want tutoring?" 

"No." I replied too quickly, knowing that I couldn't trust myself to be alone with this man for more than 5 minutes without doing something I'd later regret.

"You sure?" He asked again, his voice getting higher at the end of his sentence. 

I nodded. 

My finger traced the F gently. I could sense Sherlock watching me the whole time. 

"Well..." He sighed, "I'll have to talk to your parents about it tomorrow."

"Parent." I corrected. This was followed by a soft "oh" and a muffled apology. As per usual, I brushed it off. 

I looked up at the clock on the wall. I was going to be late to my next lesson, not that I particularly minded missing it, "Can I go now?" 

Without waiting for an answer, I stood up and headed for the door. Sherlock smiled at me. Well, I say smiled. It was more of a smirk. Considering our previous conversation, it was a sudden change of character. 

I placed my hand on the handle when I changed my mind. I turned around suddenly. Sherlock was still grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat. It was making me slightly uncomfortable. 

He visibly looked me up and down before biting his lip seductively.

Each word, each held glance, edged us further and further into he's-going-to-get-fired-and-sent-to-prison teritiory. It was as though we were both being swept along by a wave made up of thousands of unknown emotions, being pushed along gently by the current.

It was all under control though. 

Maybe. 

I folded my arms across my chest, "All the girls who'd form a queue to get into your pants and you flirt with me?"

"Who said anything about flirting?"

I paused for a moment, realising I'd messed up. I quickly decided on a suitable answer, "Your smirk."

He laughed softly, "My smirk?"

Was he mocking me? It felt like he was mocking me. 

"I was just wondering if I kept it up for long enough you'd want to kiss it off my face."

There was no hiding the fact that I was surprised by his comment. Before I knew it, he was stood a few feet in front of me. My heart was racing and I was convinced that he could hear it beating. 

"Would you?" He whispered. 

"Depends."

"On?" 

"Whether you'd want me to."

He looked me up and down as if he was debating his options. It was then that I realised I wouldn't be able to break the character I had created for myself. I wasn't going to be able to back away when it all got a little too real. My character wouldn't do that. He was strong and flirty. He was brave and outgoing. He was everything I wasn't. 

Sherlock continued to stare at me. I took a deep breath, realising what bad ass Jim would do in this situation. I began to lean in slowly, ignoring my heart hammering against my rib cage. My fear fuelled smile wavered slightly as Sherlock mirrored my actions, leaning down so that our faces were now level. I could feel his steady breath as I watched him close his eyes, our lips close to touching. 

I pulled back suddenly, leaving Sherlock hanging. Instead of a kiss, I placed a finger to my teachers lips as I muttered with an air of secrecy, "Later." 

I left the room quickly after that, releasing a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. I leant back against the nearest wall and dreamily laughed to myself. I'd almost kissed my teacher. I almost kissed my teacher! Chuckling, I ran, yes  _voluntarily_  ran, to my next lesson. 

~-~-~-~-~

"Are you ready to go?" My mum asked as we stood outside the school. Being at school after hours was strange enough, let alone at night. The lack of pupils made it look so much bigger and a lot less welcoming. The jet black sky was stained by painfully slow moving clouds. Unfortunately, this meant that the stars, possibly my favourite things in the world (pardon the pun), weren't visible. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" I replied. It was a rhetorical question, of course, but I couldn't stop myself from listing all reasons why I wouldn't be ready to enter that building. All of which, unsurprisingly, either directly or vaguely mentioned a certain teacher. 

We entered the building and made our way to the school hall. Rows of tables, each attended by a separate teacher, filled the room. My eyes were drawn to one person in particular. I swear I was drawn to that man like a magnet. 

Sherlock looked up and our eyes met for a moment. I was forced to look away as my mother and I were dragged to our first appointment. 

As predicted, I didn't pay any attention to a word my teachers were saying. I was so eager to talk to Sherlock again that I didn't notice I was being asked a question. 

"Jim?" My English teacher asked. Her face displayed irritation indicating that this wasn't the first time she'd asked whatever the hell it was she was asking. My mum's eyebrows were raised expectantly. I flicked my gaze between both the women scratching my head anxiously. 

I forced out a small cough, "I'm sorry, what?" 

My teacher rolled her eyes whilst my mum shot me a look as if to say "are you serious?". What exactly did they expect? 

Soon, much to my delight, it was time to talk to Sherlock. 

When he saw me coming, he smirked at me, eyeing me up and down as he had done before. After yesterday's encounter (aka the near kiss), I felt as though something had changed between us. We were no longer just flirting. It was like a ticking time bomb. The kiss would inevitably happen, it was just a matter of when.

And a matter of who would snap first.

Mr Holmes introduced himself to my mother slightly awkwardly and we sat down. He began to ramble on about my grades, not once mentioning my F. I was grateful for this. She didn't necessarily  _need_  to know that tiny detail. 

I couldn't stop staring at his lips. I wondered if they felt as soft as they looked. I had been so close to kissing them. To kissing those plump, pink lips of his. 'Cheiloproclitic - being attracted to a persons lips' I mentally noted, continuing to admire them. 

I felt a foot on my own, dragging me out of my thoughts against my will. I assumed it was an accident. At least, I thought that until the foot began running up my leg, lifting my trouser leg with it. I looked at the owner of the foot, Sherlock, and shivered as the shoe touched my bare leg. He was smiling smugly whilst somehow managing to pay attention to my mother wittering on about something incredibly unimportant. 

_Why was this turning me on so much?_

As he was distracted by a question, I saw it as my turn to copy his previous actions. I anticipated his reaction and, much to my delight, he noticeably shivered. My mother raised a dubious eyebrow and I made it my mission to radiate innocence. Sherlock coughed.

"Sorry," he lied effortlessly, "It's a bit cold in here." 

At the end of our talk, both my mum and Mr Holmes stood up and shook hands. Somehow, this managed to make me jealous. God, I was like a fucking guard dog. 

My mum walked in front of me and headed for the doors, seeing as Sherlock was the last teacher on our list. I was just about to follow when my hand was grabbed by my teacher. I looked around anxiously to make sure no one was watching. Luckily, they weren't.  _Apparently_  the world didn't actually revolve around us. 

"Stop torturing me." He whispered into my ear, his lips touching my skin as he spoke. 

I pulled my hand from his grip and held it up in mock innocence, "Me?" I took one last look at his lips, "Why would I do such a thing?" With that, I turned to follow my mother out the door. 

Once outside, she turned to me, "That new science teacher of yours seems nice." 

I smiled to myself. He wouldn't be nice for long, not if I had anything to do with it. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Trigger Warning // Sexual assault (no consent) for the third part of this chapter (it's not between Sherlock and Jim)

" _I know I shouldn't say this but I really believe,_

_I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me."_

_\- Terrible Things_  
_Mayday Parade_

The holidays, as predicted, were painfully dull. My mum spent her time at work as she didn't get a break, apparently. Honestly, I didn't know she had a job. I kind of assumed she stayed at home all day. I suppose I never really asked. Thinking about it, the sheer lack of things I knew about my own mother was alarming.

Without any friends or Sherlock to keep my company, I had no plans whatsoever - hence it being painfully dull. I spent the majority of my time rather pathetically thinking about my science teacher. I must point out that this was definitely not my intention. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop his face from constantly popping into my mind at the worst times.

Whenever I thought about Sherlock, my mind wandered. One day I wondered whether or not he had any pets whilst the next, I questioned whether he really was single. This obviously led to me convincing myself that he didn't actually care about me. He just seemed too good to be true. Perhaps he'd find someone else during the holidays - someone better than me. We'll everyone was better than me so that wouldn't be a hard task. Maybe he'd found someone his age who he could quite happily hang around with without the fear of getting caught. Let's be honest, he probably replaced me the first chance he got.

_I really hate my mind sometimes._

In other news, the house next to mine sold. Much to my disappointment, it wasn't Sherlock who bought it. It was an elderly couple who I'd immediately decided I didn't like. They looked like stereotypically nice neighbours who'd bake you cakes out of the blue. Sure, this didn't sound too bad, but no matter how nice they appeared, they weren't Sherlock Holmes.

I'd already ignored my own advise; don't get your hopes up to avoid disappointment.  _Good job Jim._

~-~-~-~-~

I made sure to get to school early on the first day back, silently hoping to bump into Mr Holmes. I hope that man realised what a mess he's turned me into. I was waking up  _early_  on a  _Monday_  for him. I must like him.

During the holidays, I'd finally come to terms with my feelings for Sherlock. I refused to call it love but there was definitely something there. It was more than a crush, more than me simply liking him. I was certainly fascinated by him. He was the only person who actually seemed to enjoy spending time with me and vice versa. The only person who I felt I could really trust. It was terrifying to me as I found it hard to open up to anyone, yet found talking to Sherlock ridiculously easy.

He had my heart in his hands and he could quite easily smash it before my very eyes. He was aiming his gun directly at me but I trusted him not to pull the trigger. Letting Sherlock in made me completely vulnerable. He could easily break me.

Perhaps I was infatuated.

Due to how early I was, not many people were at school. As I didn't particularly know what to do - having no friends to hang out with was a real disadvantage in this scenario - I chose to wander around the school aimlessly. Luckily, my early morning ambling paid off.

I had just turned down yet another seemingly abandoned corridor when I spotted a familiar figure walking towards me. The figure was, of course, Sherlock. I'm not going to lie, I genuinely felt a flutter in my chest when I saw him. Considering it was the first day back and the rest of the school looked like a mess, he looked exceptionally good.

"Morning Sir." I smiled at him receiving only a blank expression in response.

_Rude._

The sigh that was just about to escape my lips was quickly turned into a gasp as he dragged me, rather smoothly, may I add, into a conveniently placed supplies cupboard. Closing the door behind us, he pushed me into the wall lightly, allowing little space between us. His hands were either side of me, blocking me in. In fact, we were so close that I could smell his (severely missed) scent once again. It was like a mix of coffee and cigarettes. Sherlock didn't exactly look like he'd be one to smoke or drink large amounts of coffee, but I wasn't complaining. Although, I honestly thought he would be one to prefer tea. Each to their own, I guess.

Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of room in the cupboard. It wasn't exactly small. There was really no reason for us to be this close which implied that Sherlock only had one intention.

The 'intimate' moments I'd felt with him throughout the school year were nothing compared to this.

"You're killing me here." Sherlock whispered into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.  _Had I really done it? Had I brought a grown man to his knees?_  Admittedly, it wasn't in the way I was expecting. This way, however, was a lot more fun.

My mouth fell open slightly as I carefully planned out what I was going to say, desperate not to ruin the moment.

"Oh really?" I replied finally, resisting the urge to kiss him. I wouldn't be able to stop myself for long, I knew that. I just had to make sure to get the timing absolutely perfect. I had Sherlock exactly where I wanted him, I couldn't mess this up now.

"I have an overwhelming desire to kiss you right now, Jim Moriarty." Sherlock said, vocalising my thoughts.

"What's stopping you?"

As Sherlock stared at my lips, I seized the opportunity. Everything I'd ever wanted to say to Sherlock transferred from my lips to his. A rush of excitement coursed through my veins. Holmes's hands instinctively wrapped around the back of my neck, connecting our lips fully. I could physically feel Sherlock relax as he ran his hands through my hair absentmindedly. I placed my hands on his hips, attempting to pull him closer - if that was even physically possible.

What we were doing right now was so wrong yet so right. I had no words to describe it. In fact, I'm positive that not a single word in the dictionary could even attempt to describe the sensation I was experiencing. All my senses were alive. I was alive.

It was genuine, undeniable bliss. I decided right then and there that I could quite happily do this forever. I decided that I enjoyed kissing Sherlock and that I never wanted to kiss another human being ever again.

I eventually pulled back, breathless. Sherlock made it so that our foreheads were just touching, his breathing just as rapid as my own. I felt his hands sliding from my hair, to my neck, to my back, finally residing on my waist. Every inch of my skin he touched was on fire.

Once my breathing was somewhat normal, I looked at Sherlock lustfully. He must have read my mind as, before any words left either of our mouths, they were connected again.

We were so caught up in the moment that we almost didn't hear the bell signalling the start of registration. I tried to be mad with it but failed miserably, my mouth independently curling into a smile. Of course I didn't exactly want to leave the cupboard, but I was positive that nothing could possibly bring me down from this high I was experiencing.

Sherlock smiled at me, his cheeks slightly flushed. No words were exchanged - they didn't need to be. We both silently readjusted our clothes due to the light creases we had created, only loosing eye contact when completely necessary.

Stepping out of the way slowly, Sherlock opened the door for me to leave. I took the hint and walked out, laughing even though nothing was particularly funny. Apparently, my laugh was contagious as I soon heard my teacher's distant chuckle. We were collectively giggling over nothing. This was clearly hilarious to me as I continued to laugh my way down the corridor. I physically couldn't wipe the smile off my face. It was pathetic, sure, but I was so undeniably happy in that moment that, frankly, I couldn't care less.

~-~-~-~-~

I hate sports. 

Especially when it's my first lesson.

My teacher made me and another boy run a lap of the field at the end of the lesson because we complained about him making us do exercise in the rain. Personally, I thought it was an entirely reasonable thing to complain about. Evidently, he didn't share my opinion. 

However, I was too happy about the recent progression with Sherlock to care. I was determined not to let anything ruin my mood today. 

I'd kissed him and he'd kissed me back. That  _must_  mean something. 

_He'd kissed me._

_He kissed me._

_We kissed._

The other boy I mentioned was called Jake. I admittedly felt slightly bad for making him stay behind. All he did was back up my argument. Technically, it was my fault. 

If I'm completely honest, Jake is probably one of the more attractive boys in the school. That was, of course, one of the main reasons he was popular. Every school is the same. There's always that one group of popular kids who think they own the school. Without fail, they're always popular because of their physical appearance. They're like carbon copies. They must make them in factories, I swear.

If I wasn't so infatuated with Sherlock, I'd probably be interested in him. 

Alas, like the majority of popular kids, he was an asshole. The curse of attractive genes, I guess.

There were numerous reports of him cheating on his girlfriends or sleeping with everyone he made eye contact with. It honestly wouldn't surprise me if the rumours were true. He was the type of guy who treated his partners as through they were worthless - like a piece of meat. He was only interested in one thing. The one thing that some people wouldn't willingly agree to at this age. 

I sat in the changing rooms. He was sat in the corner of the room, watching me silently. Suddenly feeling self conscious, I pulled off my top and searched around for my school shirt. I could feel Jake's eyes on me the whole time causing my searching to become more frantic. Considering the fact that we were the only two people in the room, the tension felt even worse. 

I chose to ignore him and focus on getting out of there, preferably as soon as possible. Pulling on my shirt, I began to do up the buttons. I heard footsteps getting closer to me.

"Hey Jim." Jake said, breaking the silence. He was suddenly sat right beside me. I edged away. 

"What do you want?" I snapped, trying to indicate that I really didn't want him so close to me. 

Clearly either not getting the hint or simply choosing to ignore it, he moved closer. I felt his breath on my face as he whispered, "You."

Part of me wanted to laugh in his face due to the stupidity of the situation whilst the other part was fucking terrified. 

It then dawned on me that he most likely didn't have consent from half the girls he'd had sex with. Like I said, he was only interested in one thing. My assumption would make sense. All the alleged victims stayed as far away from Jake as they could. Were they angry? Embarrassed? Frightened?

This was the one time I was glad I listened to the gossip. 

My heart began to race and I knew I had to get out of that room. I tried to do up my buttons quickly but my fumbling fingers wouldn't do as I asked. He placed his hand over mine, preventing me from moving. I could feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my shirt and I was convinced that he could feel my rapid heart beat. I focused on my breathing. 

"Please get off me." I said, unsure as to why I was bothering to be polite. 

He tightened his grip on my wrists, "Don't be like that, Jimmy."

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

I looked at his hands anxiously. Everything had escalated so quickly that I thought I was dreaming, except this was more of a nightmare.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inha-_

Without warning, he pressed his lips against mine forcefully, replacing any memory I had of kissing Sherlock. Turning my face to the side, I managed to pull away. My hands were still trapped. I was trapped. 

"No!" I croaked powerlessly. I couldn't escape. He was all around me, suffocating me slowly. 

"Don't be such a fucking baby, Jim." Jake spat, "Stop being so ungrateful. You're lucky I even gave you a second look. Some people would kill to be in your position." 

Just like before, his lips were on mine again, more aggressive this time. He pushed me down so that he was now on top of me, holding my hands above my head. Every inch of my body was screaming at him. With one hand, he gripped my wrists whilst he used the other to feel all over my body. Tears blurred my eyesight as I found it increasingly hard to breath. His free hand travelled everywhere. It travelled over my chest, through my hair, between my thighs...

I had no way of fighting back. 

"You're... So... Pathetic..." He told me between breaths. The worst part was, he was right. I should be thankful that he chose me, shouldn't I? I should be enjoying this. Why didn't I feel particularly lucky?

He hand continued to touch me. It slipped under my trousers effortlessly and forced its way into my boxers.

I heard distant footsteps and Jake's actions seemed more frantic. He covered my mouth with the sleeve of his jumper, preventing me from yelling. Not that I remembered how to speak. My brain had shut down. 

The footsteps entered the room but I couldn't see who they belonged to. 

"Get off him!" I heard them shout. 

Quicker footsteps followed, probably because they heard the shouting. A figure, who I assumed was a teacher, pulled Jake off me and out of the room. I continued to cry silently. 

It may have been over but I still felt dirty. I could feel his filthy little hands on my skin. I could feel his lips on mine. I wanted to be sick. 

I pulled my legs up to my chest as someone, presumably a teacher, walked over and sat down beside me. They reached out to touch me, most likely meant for support, but I flinched away from them. 

"Don't touch me!" I cried, hiding my face in my knees.

"Jim?" The person beside me asked. I recognised their voice as one of the gym teachers but it wasn't as comforting as it should have been. 

"Don't..." I sobbed, running my shaking hands through my hair. I pulled at the strands angrily, "Don't touch me..."

"It's alright, Jim." The teacher persisted, "You're safe now." Bullshit. 

_Bull-fucking-shit._

"Everything's going to be okay." Lies. All of it. 

The man kept talking and I kept ignoring him. Of course I was grateful that he intervened, but it was too late. The damage had already been done. 

So much for avoiding getting hurt...


	6. Chapter 6

_"I hate my weaknesses,_  
_They make me who I am."_

 _\- .joyriding._  
_Frnkiero andthe Cellabration_

"Jim?" 

I focused on the floor of Sherlock's classroom as though, if I stared long enough, it would swallow me whole. It sounds cliché, but I really didn't want to be here, so much so that I would rather disappear off the face of the earth than face another day. It's funny how I went from not having a care in the world to not wanting to exist in the course of an hour or so. I knew it would happen. The same thing happened last time. I let someone in, let my guard down and get hurt.

I'm better off on my own. 

"Jim?" 

Hiding my hands in my sleeves, I hugged my arms to my chest tightly, creating some sort of barrier between me and everyone else. 

I don't know why I was letting the Jake situation effect me so much. I'd usually just brush it off, that's what I always did with the things that hurt me. Why was this different? 

Maybe it was because it was technically my first sexual experience. If that was what it was always like, I was positive that I never wanted any skin-on-skin touching every again. That rules out any accidental hand brushing, hugs and passionate make out sessions. 

Keep my distance. 

"Jim?" 

I finally looked up at Sherlock, who had been trying to get my attention for the past 10 minutes. His eyes were filled with pity, although he hadn't been told what had happened a few hours prior. You see, the day continued as usual after that. I managed to loiter in the medical room for as long as possible before being forced back to my lessons. The nurse used the excuse that I wasn't actually 'ill'. 

Just psychologically damaged, maybe. 

Sherlock had made me stay behind after Science because I ' _wasn't acting myself_ '. I mean, it's no wonder. I was too busy preoccupied with self-hated that I didn't pay attention, not that this was particularly new behaviour. I was normally able to disguise it better, though.

"What?" I asked. Except for this mornings encounter, those were the first words I'd said to him. 

_This mornings encounter..._

I had been determined not to let anything ruin my day. I'd failed that. I'd failed everything. I hated myself. 

_I hate myself._

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"Jim..." He sighed. 

That stirred something inside of me, apparently. "You do know that you're not a fucking councillor, Sir." I snapped. 

As I said the last word, he reacted as though I'd just drop-kicked his heart like a football. Was he expecting me to call him Sherlock? Had I just ruined the only good thing left in my life? 

He composed himself, "Jim, seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" I argued, clenching my fists tighter. 

"Jim."

"Nothing is wrong! I'm fine!" 

"I just want to help you!"

Along with those words, any anger I was feeling dissipated into the air. I looked down at my white knuckles and released my grip on my arms. I relaxed my hands on my legs.

"I don't need help..." I whispered. 

"What happened, Jim?"

He wanted to help me. He was the only person in my life at the moment who actually willingly wanted to help me. I could trust him. He wouldn't hurt me. He won't hurt me. He will never hurt me. 

_Right?_

I opened my mouth to speak but weak sobs escaped instead of words. "Jake" was the only word I managed to choke out. 

This was the first time I'd visibly shown weakness. This was the first time I'd cried in front of someone for years. I hadn't even cried when I found out what happened to my dad. What kind of monster didn't cry? What kind of monster acted as though they didn't care? What kind of monster was I? 

This thought process evoked more tears. I was crying. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I was crying. Crying over Jake, my dad, anything and everything that ever hurt me was released in the form of tears. 

And it felt intoxicatingly good. 

"What did he do, Jim?" Sherlock made an attempt to comfort me. He moved forward and tried to put a hand on my own. Out of instinct, I flinched away. Sherlock retracted his hand quickly, his eyes fixed on me and my odd behaviour. I couldn't even touch the man I'd been kissing this morning.  _This was all wrong._

"He ruined everything!" I shouted hysterically. I was so incredibly vulnerable at the moment and it was all  _his_  fault. 

Sherlock looked at me sadly and I felt a pain in my chest. Just this morning his eyes had been wide with happiness and adoration. Everything had been perfect. I'd kissed him and he'd kissed back. We were happy. Now look at us. 

I thought back to the kiss. It hadn't been my first, unfortunately. My first kiss was memorable for the wrong reasons...

It happened a few years ago. We had been playing spin the bottle, as the kids did at parties back then. This guy, John, landed on me. Although I hated to admit it, I was really excited by the thought of kissing him - of kissing a  _boy_. Evidently, he didn't feel the same way. 

"Jim? I have to kiss Jim?" John said, disgusted. That's exactly the moment when my heart plummeted. 

"Just do it!" The others urged, laughing. They were laughing at me, I knew it. No one in their right mind would want to kiss me. 

John continued to protest, "I'm not gay!" 

"I don't care, you know the rules." 

Eventually he gave in, pressing his lips to mine hesitantly, as if they were poisoned. By the way he reacted after, you would have believed they were too. He faked throwing up, much to the delight of his friends. They were all finding this hilarious, cheering him on. I, on the other hand, wanted to disappear.

I thought I could class John as my friend. That's probably where my fear of trusting people came from.

Sherlock was still watching me carefully, silently willing me to explain further. I could trust him. 

"He..." I paused, not knowing how to phrase it. What had he done? 

My teacher nodded supportively and I tried again. 

"He..." I looked down, my mouth dry, "He touched me..." 

The words I'd chosen really didn't do justice to what he'd done. He'd destroyed the perfect image I'd had of a relationship. He'd made me feel worthless. He'd broken me. 

Sherlock somehow seemed to get the message. I hugged myself again, the familiar sickness rising in my throat. 

"Jim?" 

I nodded. 

"You think it's your fault, don't you?" 

 _What kind of question was that?_  Of course I did. I mean, it was, wasn't it? I was the one who caused him to have to stay behind. I was the one who felt it was necessary to complain. I could have tried to fight back. I could have tried to protect myself. But I didn't. I let it happen. It was my fault. 

"You're overthinking everything, aren't you?" 

 _Obviously._ That was the only thing my stupid, self-conscious brain knew how to do. 

"You think you're horrible, don't you?" 

Was he purposely trying to make me even more anxious than I already was? Was he trying to make my self-loathing even worse? If that was his intention, it was working. 

"Yes." I replied simply. Was he bullying me? Was I overthinking again? 

So. Many. Unanswered. Questions. 

"Do you trust me?" He asked.

_Have you given me a reason not to?_

"Yes." I did, it wasn't a lie. Despite the sudden questionnaire almost changing my mind, I really did trust Sherlock wholeheartedly. 

Holmes smiled, "Then believe me when I say that you are so indescribably beautiful, Jim Moriarty. You're not to blame for his actions. You're not to blame for anything. No one deserves this, especially not you. Trust me when I say that I will never stop trying to fix you." 

A small, almost non-existent smile forced its way onto my face, "I trust you."

~-~-~-~-~

The next few weeks were uneventful. I spent all my lunch breaks with Sherlock, no change there, largely because I was terrified of being anywhere else but with him. Outside of the classroom, I wasn't safe. The school was the sea, the pupils the sharks, whilst I was the fish, their only source of food. Their only source of entertainment. 

By this time, the whole school knew about what happened between Jake and I. The story had been altered, obviously. That's what happens with rumours. They're Chinese whispers, changing every time. No one knows the truth. 

No one but Jake and I. 

Jake who, despite what he'd done, was still roaming the school corridors. He got let off with a few detentions. He was the only person I hated more than I hated myself, and that was an achievement. 

"Sir?" I asked, opening the door to Sherlock's room. My legs had independently brought me here, as though they had been programmed. 

He looked up from his work and raised an eyebrow at me, smirking. 

It took me a moment to realise what he was implying.

"Sherlock." I corrected myself and his smirk transformed into a smile. 

"Yep?" He asked, returning to his work. 

"Can you..." I paused suddenly, changing my mind, "Actually, no. Don't worry..." 

He frowned at me and pulled up a seat for me to take. I sat down uncomfortably. Evidently, he sensed this and smiled, making me relax. He had a weird way of doing that. He nodded for me to continue and gave me his full attention. 

"It's stupid." I protested weakly. 

He arched an eyebrow once more, "I doubt anything you ask of me will be stupid, Jim." 

Sighing, I scratched the back of my neck, wishing I'd never said anything in the first place. 

I took a deep breath, "Can you..." I tried again, "Can  _I_  maybe..." 

He smiled at me supportively, silently urging me to go on. 

"Can I hold your hand?" I mumbled quickly, my eyes fixed on the floor. 

I'd decided on the way here that I was ready for some kind of interaction today. It had been weeks since what happened, and I was ready. Even if it was small, it was something. One small step at a time, right? 

Sherlock leant back in his chair and began to chuckle to himself. He shook his head - softly so that I wouldn't take his actions the wrong way - and grinned at me. 

"Jim Moriarty," he laughed, his smile growing every second, "of course you can." 

I theatrically breathed a sigh of relief as the words fell from his mouth. I watched his hand as he placed it on the table in front of me, palm up. I liked that. He wasn't forcing me to do anything I didn't want to do. He was simply offering his hand, nothing more. I could still change my mind - not that I was planning on doing that. 

I wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers. It was truly pathetic that I was getting so worked up over this. I was literally just going to hold his hand. 

I felt exposed. I felt as if I was taking my clothes off in front of him for him to judge my body. Except, instead of clothes, layers of the fake personalities I've built for myself over the years. So long bad ass Jim, I guess. Although by this time, bad ass Jim was well and truly gone. 

Cautiously, I placed my hand on top of his lightly. At first, the skin to skin contact made me feel slightly nauseous, but I didn't move away. Instead I ran my index finger down each of Sherlock's slender fingers, taking note of every detail. Throughout this, Sherlock continued to remain silent, watching each hesitant movement. I lifted his hand upright so that I could place my own against his, like a mirrored reflection. My hands were quite a bit smaller, I noticed. I slowly began to intertwine our fingers, closing mine around his hand. Mr Holmes copied my actions, gently tracing invisible patterns on my skin with his thumb. 

"You have soft hands." I mentioned casually. It wasn't a lie, he really did. They were the softest I'd ever felt, not that I could exactly remember the last time I held someone's hand. 

A small giggle escaped my teachers lips. This whole situation was turning both of us back into children. Two children holding hands for the first time, throwing themselves out of this comfort zones for the sake of the other. Except Sherlock and I had done more than just hold hands before. We'd hugged, kissed - none of this was new to us. 

But somehow,  _it was_. 

We were retracing our steps, repeating our relationship. All the progress we'd made with each other had been erased by Jake. I suppose, somehow, this was a way of making our bond stronger. 

_I'm so bloody cheesy sometimes._

Sherlock smiled and brought our hands down to rest of the table. He then proceeded to start a casual conversation, as if nothing had happened. I continued to stare at our hands the whole time, smiling the same stupid smile I'd been smiling the day I kissed him. Maybe things could go back to normal.

If there even was such thing as normal in our relationship.


	7. Chapter 7

_"But believe me I'm fine_  
_But I'm lying,_  
_I'm so very far from fine"_

 _\- Fall Away_  
_Twenty One Pilots_

I wasn't ready.

I knew I wasn't ready. 

Why was I forcing myself to be ready?

I stared at Sherlock's classroom door, willing myself to open it. I had a while before the school day began, surely I could take my time. I didn't necessarily have to do it today, did I? I didn't have to rush. 

Nope, it had to be now. I wouldn't talk myself out of it. 

Without waiting any longer, I pushed open the door, my heart rate increasing with the movement. And there he was, just as predicted. He stood there, sleepily writing on the board. Other than his eyes widening slightly, he acted as through he had expected me. 

I didn't want to do this. 

My stomach tied itself in a knot - the kind you'd get a scout badge for. I masked the tightness in my chest with what I hoped was a convincing smile. I desperately tried to summon back bad ass Jim. Where was he when I needed him? 

I needed to do this. Sherlock had endured weeks of simple hand holding and I could tell he was getting bored. He wanted a proper relationship, he didn't want to have to wait on a selfish brat like me. He wanted more. I wasn't ready for more. 

I had to do this for him.

"Hey Sherly," I chirped, practically skipping towards him. I hated this already.

He put his pen down and outstretched his arm, his hand free for me to take. I was supposed to take it. That's what usually happened - this is how we usually greeted each other. 

Instead, once I reached him, I took both of his hands in mine and wrapped his arms around me softly. He made no attempt of moving away when I let go, which I supposed was a good sign. Initially, it felt kind of odd. I hadn't been this close to anyone in a while. His arms were safe, I had to keep reminding myself that.

Placing my hands on his shoulders lightly, I subtly tried to focus on my breathing. I loved being so close to Sherlock, of course I did. I just wasn't sure I was ready.

Sherlock looked down at me skeptically, "Why are you so happy?"

"Would you prefer for me to be miserable again?" 

"No! T-that's not what I..." He sighed, "What are you doing, Jim?" 

I feigned innocence, refusing to give up easily, "What do you mean?" 

He rolled his eyes and, for a moment, I was worried that I'd irritated him. Didn't he want this? Had I read him all wrong? 

"You know exactly what I mean," Sherlock said, "Why the sudden change in character?" 

I shrugged. 

"I'm better?" I suggested. 

"Jim..." He sighed.

I had irritated him then. That's what that meant, right? Surely that was the only explanation for his behaviour.

"I miss being close to you!" I admitted. It wasn't a complete lie. I missed his arms being around me. I missed his lips being on mine. As much as I dreaded those moments, part of me longed for them. 

Sherlock was silent for a while and I started to panic. 

Still remaining quiet, Sherlock leant down and pressed a small kiss to my forehead. I closed my eyes and focused on the spot his lips had touched. It felt as though it was tingling. 

A genuine smile replaced my fake one. 

I glanced up at the clock on the wall. There was about 5 minutes until the bell rang. The school bell. In the school I went to. And Sherlock taught in. Because Sherlock's a teacher. My teacher. Which makes this illegal. And I need to keep reminding myself that. 

My smile faded. 

I found the words slipping out of my mouth before I had time to think them through, "Can I spend time with you outside of school?" 

I honestly sounded like a little kid inviting someone round to play. 

I suppose, in a way, I was.

Not the time, Jim. 

Sherlock appeared lost in thought for a moment before a smile worked it's way onto his face. Just the mere sight of this was enough to fill me with a sudden jolt of confidence. 

"Meet me here after school." 

~-~-~-~-~

As promised, I headed to Sherlock's classroom at the end of the day, my heart, as always, thumping in my chest as though it was having a private disco. The pulse of my heart was similar to that of a bass line in the sense that it radiated throughout me. Even though I had time to mentally prepare myself, the element of surprise made me anxious. Still, I opened the door.

A box was shoved in my face.

"Carry this," Sherlock said, handing me a box full of exercise books, "preferably in a way that's covering your face."

I paused, taking his final comment the wrong way.

"Should I be offended?" I asked, peering over the top of the newly achieved box. 

"What? Oh god, no! T-that's not what I meant!" He spluttered apologetically, a blush creeping onto his face. I almost felt bad for laughing -  _almost_. 

"I know." I smiled down at the floor, the box hopefully blocking me from Sherlock's view. I say hopefully because I was convinced that the same blush graced my face with it's presence. 

Sherlock collected his things and told me to follow him. He led me towards, what appeared to be, his car, and I understood why he wanted me to cover my face. Even though the school day had ended, some people, for a reason unbeknown to me, didn't rush out of the door as soon as the bell went and, instead, elected to stay behind. At least I had a good motive to stay late.

Without waiting to be instructed, I slid into the passenger seat, placing the box on the back seat. I suppose to others this car was just a car. Not to me. It may not have been anything special, but this vehicle was an, admittedly very small, insight into the life of Sherlock Holmes. The choice of car, the colour, all of it was a conscious decision he had made at some point in his life. And by letting me in his car, he was sharing it with me.

Perhaps I was overthinking this. 

Sherlock sank into the seat beside me and started the engine, "Okay, now duck."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, you either duck and get to see where we're going or stay sat up like the stubborn asshole you are and get caught. Your choice."

Instead of being offended by the insult, I smiled as if it was a compliment. 

Needless to say I did as he asked. 

~-~-~-~-~

"We're here." Sherlock announced.

Where here was, however, was still a mystery to me. 

We both stepped out of the car and my eyes began scanning the surroundings. This was most definitely not what I had expected. 

We appeared to be stood on the outskirts of the woods. A seemingly abandoned woods. The towering trees blocked out the majority of the sunlight, their leaves more golden than green by this time. It was ominously quiet. But nothing about this was at  _all_  creepy. 

I took a few steps towards Sherlock, the crushing leaves accentuating each footstep

"What are we doing here?" I asked, trying my best not to sound ungrateful. It wasn't  _that_  bad. I mean, it could be a lot worse. He could have taken me to watch the golf or something. 

Sherlock answered, his voice quiet, "We're here because we're hidden by the trees, which means we can do whatever we want."

I'd be lying if I said this comment didn't scare me. Nevertheless, I ignored the sudden burst of anxiety. Sherlock wouldn't hurt me. I trusted him. 

He took my hand in his, and I watched intensely as our fingers intertwined. Clearly, he took my actions the wrong way as he let go as soon as he saw me watching. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Full of awkward misinterpretations? 

"I really like you, Jim."

I sighed, "Then prove it."

"What?" Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. 

"Stop being too scared to touch me. Stop being so afraid of hurting me."

"But what if I do..." 

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor as he kicked some of the fallen leaves childishly. I placed my thumb under his chin and lifted his head enough for our eye contact to be restored.

"Honey, you can't break what's already broken."

I could practically predict his next words, "I can try to fix you."

I laughed, the simple action removing a lot of the tension in the cool autumn air. Rolling my eyes, I playfully groaned, "Oh my god, please don't go all Coldplay on me."

And with that, Sherlock's lips were on mine. And I momentarily forgot everything but Sherlock and the taste of his lips. And I momentarily forgot that what we were doing was  _fucking illegal_ , because his lips were on mine and it felt good. 

And for a moment, I was happy. 

~-~-~-~-~

At some point, we decided to go for a walk. A few leaves fluttered down before us as we walked hand in hand through the trees, unafraid of who might see us. At least, I wasn't afraid. Sherlock, however, was. If we saw someone, and that was very rare, Sherlock immediately let go of my hand and shoved his own into his pocket. I would never tell him how much this hurt me. He was embarrassed to be with me - of course he was. 

_Who wouldn't be?_

I was nothing to him, I knew it. He doesn't like me, he's using me. To him, I was just his worthless, dirty little secret. Just a stupid student who was desperate enough to flirt with a teacher. Honestly, show me the slightest bit of attention and I'll follow you around like a fucking spaniel.

We soon found ourselves back where we started. My sudden mood change dimmed all the colours around me. The bright, flaming golden leaves were now just dying leaves. I became wildly aware that everything around me was coming to an end - the leaves, the trees, the animals. There was no use in tricking myself into believing that anything would last.

Sherlock and I climbed into the car, neither of us saying a word. Maybe that was what was worst. The silence caused me to think. My self-esteem was at an all time low due to my overthinking. 

It's funny how emotions can change just like the seasons. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_"Give me therapy,_  
_I'm a walking travesty_  
_But I'm smiling at everything."_

 _\- Therapy_  
_All Time Low_

You know how I said that I was completely content with having no friends? 

Yeah, well someone seems very determined to change that. 

We knew they were joining the school a week before they did. A message was sent around the school informing us that there would be a new pupil, as if it was something of great importance. They didn't specify the gender, but I didn't see a point in the secrecy - we'd find out soon enough anyway. Exciting things rarely happened at our school though, so they were probably just trying to make it a bit more interesting for us all. 

I didn't care though. 

I  _really_  didn't.

The new pupil was the talk of the school for the whole week, making not hearing about them an impossibility. Everyone had their predictions. Most of the girls hoped it was a hot guy whilst most of the boys hoped it was a hot girl. I couldn't care less. 

By the time they were scheduled to arrive, the whole school was acting as though they were expecting the bloody queen to walk through the school gates. Well, I say the whole school. The whole school bar me. Because I didn't care.

 _Obviously_.

I sat down at my usual desk for registration, quickly noting that the space next to me, as always, was empty. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the new pupil would be forced to sit there - it was the only spare desk. The new kid, whoever and whatever they may be, would have to sit by me. 

"As I'm sure you're all aware," my tutor began as she entered the room, "there will be a new student joining us today." The room around me appeared to light up at the mention of that, "I hope you'll make her very welcome." 

A chorus of audible sighs echoed throughout the room at the casual gender drop, mainly from the girls. It was quite funny really. They all seemed to deflate like a balloons. In theory, I should be too, but I didn't care.

And then she walked in. 

And suddenly I started to care a little bit. 

Not in an "oh my god, you're making me question my sexuality" kind of way, she just grabbed my attention. I mean, she was beautiful, no doubt about it, but I was so inarguably gay, and there was no changing that. Of course, that didn't mean she didn't try. 

"Why don't you introduce yourself?" It was then that I realised everyone else was deadly silent, probably having exactly the same inner conflict as I was.

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to mask her anxiety behind an 'I don't give a fuck' attitude, "Uh, hi. I'm Irene, Irene Adler."

I watched her nervously scan the room until her eyes met mine. I shot her a small smile in an attempt to calm her down. To let her know that this shit hole wasn't actually that bad. To let her know she'd be fine. She smiled back. 

Wait...

Did I just make a friend?

"Take a seat." And she did.

She sat down next to me, as predicted. I'd like to think there was more to it than it just being the only seat available, but there was no point in lying to myself. 

Once we were told we could talk amongst ourselves, which usually meant I counted down the minutes until the bell went so that the 'I have no one to talk to' situation was less awkward, Irene turned in her seat to face me. 

"Hi." she said. It appeared as though she was being friendly, not that she'd exactly have any reason for that. I'd smiled at her. Surely you couldn't make a judgement on someone due to a simple action? She could literally be friends with whoever she wanted. I could see the 'popular' group of girls across the room snarling at me like a pack of wolves. Okay, that was a bit extreme, but they were definitely jealous.

I'd made them jealous? This all seemed too good to be true. There  _had_  to be something about me that she wouldn't like, something she'd hate me for. I just had to find it...

"I'm gay." I blurted out, automatically dreading her reaction as a default. What if she was homophobic? What if she thought of me as her gay best friend? What if she gave up on me just like every other person I've ever attempted a friendship with?

"Me too." She replied, casually, "What's your name?"

My eyes widened in shock.  _I hadn't been expecting that_. 

"Jim Moriarty. Nice to meet you." And it was. Her last comment had just solidified the fact that I could consider her friend material. 

She smiled again, and it appeared to be genuine, "You too."

~-~-~-~-~

I spent most of my day showing Irene to her lessons and consequently being late to mine. Not that I particularly cared. 

Although, I'm not sure whether I actually know what I do and don't care about anymore. 

Except Sherlock. 

I definitely care about Sherlock.

Apparently, even a single thought about that man caused the voices in my head to erupt into conversation. As soon as the first voice whispered his name, the rest of them joined the discussion, each shouting over the others in a desperate attempt to get their opinion to the front of my mind. Sure, it was deafening, but most of the points were mostly positive, which never failed to make me giddy with excitement. 

Sherlock said he liked me but I never told him that I like him in return. I mean, like is an understatement. My feelings for Sherlock are very similar to my heartbeat - soft and persistent, underlying everything. There was always the threat that my heart could stop, but I'd ignore that for now, because right now I was alive. For the first time in my life, I was living instead of just existing.

However, now that the thought was implanted in my mind, I realised how inevitable it was. Sherlock and I weren't going to last forever, that much was obvious. The constant threat of getting caught at any moment made it so much more thrilling whilst simultaneously making it so much worse. He was my teacher and I was his student and this shouldn't even be happening. 

But it was. 

And it was wrong.

 _Hooray for negativity._  

I met Irene outside of her classroom at lunch, intending on directing her to the lunch hall and then rushing off to Sherlock's room, as per usual. Just because there was a new possibility of friendship didn't mean that I had to change my daily routine, did it? Because I had just gotten used to this, and I wasn't really a big fan of change. 

I led her to the hall door before turning in the direction of Sherlock's classroom, hoping she wouldn't ask questions. Of course, much to my annoyance, she did.  

"Where are you going?" Irene called after me, raising an eyebrow at my sudden attempt of escape. 

"I-uh... To see Mr Holmes." I mumbled, settling on the truth. 

"Why?"  _Bloody good question_ , "Have you got a detention or something?"

"No," Admittedly, I should have just lied. It would have made getting away a hell of a lot easier, "I just have to talk to him about something."

A small frown appeared on Irene's face, "Can you do it later? You're my only friend here and I don't really want to eat lunch alone on my first day, you know?" 

I froze.

_You're my only friend here._

_You're my friend._

_Friend._

_She'd used the word friend._

_Irene Adler had just labeled me as her friend._

_I. Had. A. Friend._  

Thousands of indescribable emotions coursed through my veins, filling me with something that could only been explained as happiness. I frequently felt the same around Sherlock. I could feel a small, terribly repressed smile on my face, but made no effort to disguise it. 

I gave in, disappointing myself with how easily persuaded I was, and we made our way into the hall. After a few minutes of searching, we somehow managed to find a space and took a seat, Irene sitting directly opposite me. It had been a long time since I last ate in here considering I'd been spending all my lunchtimes with Sherlock. My first observation was that it was a lot louder, so much so that I could barely hear myself think, let alone hear Irene attempting to make conversation. Honestly, not being able to hear my thoughts was probably a good thing. They didn't tend to be happy a lot of the time.

I noticed some boys from other tables trying to flirt with her, clearly not being successful. There was a strong similarity between this situation and my first encounter with Sherlock. All the girls were attempting to get his attention, none of which succeeding, similar to the idiotic boys in the lunch hall. 

_Interesting..._

"Why did you move to this school?" I asked, realising I'd never actually asked in the first place.

She replied with a slight hint of pride in her voice, "I got kicked out."

"What did you do?"

Irene looked around as if she was checking for people listening in before ushering me forward with her hand. I leant in hesitantly, worried that she was about to admit to murder or something. 

I felt her breath on my ear as she whispered, "I slept with a teacher." 

And as if on queue, Sherlock strode through the door, wandering around the perimeter of the room before settling on leaning against the wall. My eyes seemed to be drawn to him like magnets. Although he was on the opposite side of the room, our eyes still found a way to meet in the middle. 

"Really?" I asked, distracted, still looking over her shoulder at Mr Holmes, who was now watching me carefully. 

I faintly heard Irene talking, but honestly, I'd stopped listening. I was too busy focusing on Sherlock and his stupid face and his stupid smirk and his stupid, yet very kissable mouth. I was too busy focusing on how easily I could march across the room right now and make out with my teacher. Sure, he would loose his job and probably get arrested, but it was still an extremely appealing idea. 

I was rather rudely dragged out from my thoughts by someone, Irene, snapping in front of my face to get my attention. "Are you even listening?" She demanded, but I was once again distracted by Sherlock laughing at me, expertly covering it up by taking a sip of his coffee, which I didn't previously know he was holding. 

"Of course," I lied, smiling down at my lap, "Why wouldn't I be?"

~-~-~-~-~

I don't know whether having science last lesson was lucky or not. On one hand, I got to spend time with Sherlock whilst on the other hand, I had to make up an excuse for not spending time with Sherlock at lunch.

The lesson started just like any other, and Sherlock began teaching, making eye contact with me every once in a while. Once he set the work for us to do, however, he wandered around the room, seemingly aimlessly, peering over students shoulders at their progress. 

I felt light breathing on the back of my neck as he finally got to my seat.

"Where were you at lunch?" He whispered, his face next to my ear making sure only I could hear. Admittedly, this probably looked highly questionable to the other pupils but I didn't particularly care because he was close enough for me to be able to feel his breath, which meant his lips were dangerously close to my skin. And right now, I was too busy focusing on that to come up with  a plausible lie. 

"You know where I was," I replied, my voice quiet yet slightly seductive, "You saw me, remember?"

He pointed at my work over my shoulder to make it look like we were talking about the work. Honestly, he was way too experienced with making this look believable because I hadn't actually got round to writing anything. 

"I missed you." He admitted and my breath caught in my throat. Those words could easily be thrown away - used without any meaning. But there was something in the way Sherlock said them that meant a lot more. The sentence was a confession, similar to another set of three little words. This relationship was forbidden. Every word exchanged had to be thoroughly planned and thought through before it was spoken. Everything was perfectly imperfect, making this increasingly hard for both of us. We had to tiptoe around the one sentence that was constantly on the tip of our tongues. Well, I did, at least. But as long as neither of us said it, surely it would be okay, right? 

This man would be the death of me, that was for sure, and that simple sentence had proved that. 

Not trusting myself speak, convinced that I'd find someway to embarrass myself, I nodded silently.

And then Sherlock asked a question I hadn't anticipated, especially not considering the current surroundings. 

"Do you want to come back to mine later?"

Of course I did, but I couldn't. I'd promised Irene that I'd spend time with her after school. That was the only reason. It  _totally_  wasn't because I was  _at all_ nervous about all the possibilities that could happen in Sherlock's house,  _obviously_.  

I shook my head and he seemed to understand, "Another time then?" I nodded, feeling somewhat similar to a bobble head.

Sherlock was pulled away by a student asking for  _actual_  help. Even after he left, I couldn't stop thinking about his question. 

He wanted me to go to his house. He was ready for me to go to his house. Someday soon, I was going to end up in his house. 

And, although I was absolutely terrified by the idea, I couldn't wait.


	9. Chapter 9

_"Just tell me,_   
_Say anything,_   
_Anything hurts less than the quiet."_

_\- THE QUIET_   
_Troye Sivan_

The car pulled up. 

Sherlock's car. 

Sherlock's car pulled up outside Sherlock's flat.

Because eventually, I'd given in and agreed.

Which I was now beginning to regret. 

As soon as the engine stopped, a tiny part of me hoped that the car had broken down or something. Okay, sure it  _sounds_  horrible, but hear me out. If his car had, for some miraculous, time-consuming reason, broken down, I'd have more time to both mentally and physically prepare myself for what I'd agreed to, because I  _clearly_  hadn't thought it through when I said yes. I'd agreed to going to my teacher's house. Surely that breaks some kind of student/teacher barrier? Not that making out in a supply cupboard didn't, of course. This relationship relied entirely on breaking barriers whilst simultaneously building more around ourselves to keep it safe. 

Sherlock stepped out of the car leaving me to follow. Although I was understandably nervous as to what could be behind the door ahead of us, I somehow managed to keep my heartbeat under control, which was a first. Could you class that as progress? 

Seemingly oblivious to how scared I was, Holmes unlocked the door led me up some stairs, presumably towards his flat. There didn't appear to be a lot of separate flats in this building, and I couldn't tell whether or not that was a good thing. I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was the only one living here. 

Speaking of Sherlock, I really wished he'd say something. The silence was oddly thick, slowly tightening around my neck so subtly that I barely noticed. It was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything at this point.  Perhaps he was just as nervous as me.

He pushed open the door. It was already unlocked, which confirmed my theory of the building being more or less empty. I stepped into the flat, my eyes instinctively scanning the room. It wasn't exactly dirty, nor was it particularly tidy, similar to what I had been expecting. There was a slight hint of dust on some surfaces, but I hadn't imagined him to be one to go around dusting like a maid. 

Now that was a mental image. 

His desk was covered in, what appeared to be unorganised, pieces of paper. I didn't take much notice of them, assuming they were something to do with the school. The opposite side of the room was equally as messy. The kitchen resembled his classroom, littered with scientific equipment, most of which I didn't understand. 

"Experiment?" I asked, my mouth involuntarily curling into a smile. Sherlock was such a nerd, inside and outside of school. 

"Mm..." Sherlock agreed, snaking his arms around my waist. He buried his head in the back of my neck, kissing the skin lightly, faintly making it clear that he only had one thing on his mind, and it wasn't science. 

I unhooked his arms and dragged him towards the kitchen, "Teach me." 

He rolled his eyes childishly, whining, "Jiiiiiim."

Chuckling softly, I turned to face him, my arms finding their way to the back of his neck. I placed a small kiss to his lips, savouring the taste. 

"I think I'm falling in love with your lips." I mentioned casually. 

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

_Did he..._

_Did he just say what I think he said?_

I paused for a moment, staring into his eyes as if I was searching for some trace of a lie. Time seemed to slow down - not that I was complaining, obviously. I was more than happy for this moment to continue for as long as humanly possible but for now, there was a task at hand.  

"Teach me, Mr Holmes." I whispered against his mouth. 

And so, reluctantly, he did.

He retrieved the necessary equipment as I sat back and watched. It did slightly alarm me how he had all these chemicals in his cupboard, but decided that, because he was a science teacher and not a psychopath, I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Sherlock talked me through what he was doing, what chemicals he was adding when and what was happening, just as he would during a science lesson. Except this time, I got to admire him without worrying about anyone seeing. He was so beautiful when he was talking about the things he was passionate about. His eyes lit up and he occasionally stumbled over his words, unable to slow down due to his excitement. 

And I found myself falling for him more and more...

But, of course, the moment was ruined as soon as he added the last chemical. Because it was Sherlock and of bloody course he'd choose an experiment that more or less resulted in an explosion. 

I barely even glanced at the foaming mess on the table as our eyes met once again. I didn't give it a second thought as Sherlock stepped closer. I'd completely forgotten about it by the time his lips were on mine. 

Sherlock directed me towards the sofa, only breaking the kiss when completely necessary. Due to the fact that I was walking backwards, I did stumble a few times, but I trusted Sherlock wholeheartedly, and that I was sure of. 

He quickly pushed me down, straddling my waist, his mouth reconnecting with my own.

Soon enough, he was on top of me, kissing me roughly. I quickly lost myself in the way his mouth was moving against my own. Although I had minimal experience with this, I immediately knew that Sherlock was a good kisser - a  _really_  fucking good kisser.

When we finally pulled apart, I was panting for air. Sherlock, who was also considerably out of breath, simply smirked down at the mess that he'd created. The mess that was me. 

_He was so goddamn beautiful._

It wasn't too long before our lips were connected again, much to my delight. Sherlock began running his tongue over my bottom lip, causing me to shudder slightly in response. I parted my lips, not entirely sure what I was doing, and Sherlock instantly began exploring it. A soft yet embarrassing moan escaped my mouth and I could faintly feel Holmes smiling. 

I didn't want to break apart from Sherlock for a second. I wished that I didn't have to breathe, and that I could use my teacher as my source of oxygen instead.

With his lips still attached to mine, Sherlock grabbed my hands and held them above my head. 

And then my heart began to race, my whole body becoming rigid with fear. Suddenly, Sherlock's hands weren't his anymore, they were Jake's. The feeling of Sherlock's lips on mine was erased, leaving only the memory of Jake's to take their place. My already closed eyes clamped shut and I refused to open them. 

"No!" I begged, tears somehow escaping my eyes. 

As soon as those words were uttered, Sherlock immediately pulled away. 

"Shit..." He gasped, worry evident in his voice, "Shit, I-I'm so sorry, Jim." My eyes snapped open and I was left to watch him stand up and back away from me. He continued to elongate the distance between us and I felt sick. The lack of his presence terrified me. I needed him now more than ever and he was practically running from me. 

"Don't go..." The words sounded stupid, sure, but I needed to get them out. I desperately needed him back beside me, "Please don't go..."

Sherlock's eyes were wide, "But I... I hurt you..." 

I shook my head, more pathetic tears falling from my eyes. I was going to have to get better at controlling those. 

When did I become so pathetic? When did I start crying at every little thing, sometimes with no logical reason behind it? When did every-goddamn-thing in my life start going downhill?

"I need you," I covered my face with my hands, muffling my words, "please."

Sherlock's face was blank, unreadable. He seemed to be contemplating what to do in this scenario, who the hell had anticipated this? This day had involved too many uncomfortable silences for my liking, and Sherlock didn't seem to be planning on ending the one we'd suddenly found ourselves in. I suppose he didn't feel as though the lack of sound was an issue, whereas I was being suffocated, as if the air, relying on noise just as much as I did, had been sucked from the room. 

In the end, I was the one to break the silence, "I should go."

Without another word - I couldn't think of anything else to say - I headed towards the door, not even attempting to hide my disappointment when Sherlock didn't make a move to stop me. In fact, he didn't move at all, as if he was frozen. A stone statue. 

I loitered by the door, half expecting Sherlock to pull me back into his arms like nothing had happened - like they did in movies - but he didn't,  _of course he didn't_. And I didn't blame him. I wouldn't have stopped myself either. 

I let out a soft sigh, "See you at school?" It was more of a question than a statement. I mean, I wanted to see him at school. I wanted this to all blow over so we could go back to normal. Clearly, the recent occurrence had made Sherlock aware of something. It had brought it, whatever  _it_  was, to the front of his mind, not allowing him to think of anything else. I could practically feel him spiralling into a pit of his own thoughts, and I knew the feeling. 

Without another word, I left. 

I exited the building, noticing how much darker it was now. The skies were a surprisingly beautiful mixture of dark blue, a similar colour to that of the ocean, and grey, covering the previously blue sky with their dullness. It wasn't late, in fact it was still reasonably early. I wasn't complaining, I was actually glad about this. At least the sun had the decency not to show its face right now. 

The weather perfectly represented my mental state. 

I stepped out onto the pavement, only now realising the approaching storm. A few raindrops fell before me, as if they were preparing for the inevitable downpour. A couple more landed on my face, mingling with the tears, making it almost impossible to tell the difference between them. Only the pinkness around my eyes gave any indication to my sadness, if anyone in this city cared enough to notice. 

Heading in, what I hoped was, the direction of my house, the rain began to fall harder and more aggressively. Because I was a complete idiot, I didn't bring a coat, or anything with a hood for that matter. Due to this, my clothes would soon weigh no less than if I had actually chosen to swim home. Surprisingly, I didn't particularly care. I didn't care about the possible cold in the morning, the one that would make me miserable for the rest of the week. I didn't care about the damp clothes, and that I'd have to walk with them weighing me down. I didn't care about the long trek home, and that I was probably walking in the wrong direction. I didn't care about anything at the moment.

I was the type of person to see beauty in the rain. It washed away almost everything - anger, sadness, anxiety - leaving only calm, quiet, and relaxation. It also meant that for once, I wasn't crying on my own. 

It was beautifully depressing. 

The rain came to a halt, much to my confusion. I could still hear the pitter-patter, but could no longer feel the water droplets on my skin. Looking up, I noticed that there was now an umbrella over my head. 

"You look cold." Sherlock mentioned beside me. 

I nodded. 

"Are you okay?" 

I thought for a moment, "I guess..." 

He nodded, as if he was satisfied with my answer. I leant into his side slightly before realising that we were completely out in the open. 

"Someone could see us." 

Shrugging as if he didn't care, although we both knew fully well that he did, he moved closer, so that our arms were now touching. There was more silence, today had orientated around it, but this time was relaxing, comfortable even. 

And that's when I knew we'd be fine. 


	10. Chapter 10

_"I wanna scream 'I love you' from the top of my lungs,_  
_but I'm afraid that someone else will hear me."_

 _\- The (Shipped) Gold Standard_  
_Fall out boy_

"Look at them," Irene started bitterly, directing my attention towards the group of girls who were currently surrounding Sherlock, "Pouncing around him like puppies." 

Glancing across the school lunch hall, I felt myself progressively growing more jealous. Even from a distance it was clear that they were flirting him to death, probably trying to 'turn him straight', because yes, they actually were  _that stupid_. He wasn't doing himself any favours, though. He was the one giving them the attention they craved. 

I picked up the knife in front of me. 

Wait, let me rephrase that. The person who sat on this table before us had left their, rather conveniently unused, knife, which I was now fiddling with in a way that was more psychopathic that socially acceptable. And by that I mean twisting it around in my hands, switching my gaze from the girls to the metal. Thinking about it, this was probably not the best idea as my jealousy levels were rapidly rising. 

For a moment, I did wonder how much damage I could do with the object in my hands. 

"Surely," Irene continued, oblivious to the anger bubbling inside of me, "they're not stupid enough to think that he of all teachers would ruin his career just to sleep with a student."

I slammed the knife down with enough force to scare the people nearby. The action eliminated most of the anger. 

"What do you think they want?" I asked demandingly. 

She shrugged, ignoring my sudden outburst.

"Why are they crowding around him like he's some kind of exhibit at a zoo? Haven't they heard of personal space? You'd think they'd at least have enough common sense to give the man room to breathe-"

I rant was cut off, "Why are you so interested in Mr Holmes all of a sudden?"

Although they were across the room, I could hear the group's faint laughter, Sherlock's laugh clearly more forced than the others.

I forced myself to look away, returning my attention to Irene, who looked confused, to say the least. Her eyebrow was raised slightly, her eyes scanning me for some indication of what I was thinking about. It was somewhat comical. She wouldn't be able to figure out what was going on inside my head, not even I could do that. 

She watched me questioningly as I picked up both my bag and the knife (what? It might come in handy). I excused myself, not bothering to wait for a response. Heading off in the direction of Sherlock's classroom, I thought my plan through on the way there. 

I pushed the door open, checking the room was empty before closing it behind me. I pulled off my bag and rested it on Holmes's desk. I grabbed the knife and placed it on the side before returning to rummaging through my possessions. After about a minute of searching, I found the last thing I needed: an apple. 

I'm not sure where the idea even came from, but as soon as it popped into my head, I knew I had to go through with it. I knew I had to show him how much he meant to me, even if I couldn't say it out loud. 

And so, I began cutting slices out of the apple. 

As I carved the letters into the fruit, my mind wandered down a rabbit hole. Unlike every other time this has happened, this rabbit hole was positive. This was wonderland. This wasn't a greyscale prison cell, this was a colourful haven. Sherlock was every colour. He made everything appear bright. He made everything so clear whilst simultaneously making everything so much more confusing. I wasn't supposed to feel like this towards him - considering, you know, he's my teacher and everything - but that didn't stop me from falling. I was falling dangerously fast down this rabbit hole with no safety harness. 

But it was fine. Sherlock would catch me.

Once I'd finished, I reviewed my handiwork. The apple read, "I <3 U". 

I internally cringed. This wasn't me. It was way too cheesy. 

Whilst contemplating whether or not to throw the apple in the bin, I peered at the clock. There wasn't long until the bell rang to indicate the last lesson of the day. 

I was going to have to sort this out quickly. 

I thought back to the previous evening. I thought back to where it went wrong. I thought about what Sherlock wanted. He'd made it pretty clear that he had wanted more than a kiss. He had wanted to sleep with me, that much was reasonably obvious. It wasn't that I didn't want that - of course I did - it was just that I was scared.

He'd put up with so much from me, I owed him that. I could ignore the nerves for him. 

I bit into the apple. 

As I was admiring my work once more, the bell rang, stopping me in my tracks. Without thinking, I put the apple on his desk, facing the writing away from the students desks. 

I paused for a moment, taking one final look at the fruit before leaving, the words following me wherever I went:

"I O U"

~-~-~-~-~

I perched on the end of Irene's bed, already feeling out of place in her pale, admittedly very aesthetically pleasing bedroom. This was the first time I'd ever been to someone's house, especially the house of a  _friend_. She, on the other hand, was completely relaxed. 

She threw herself back onto the bed, "Why are all the girls at school straight?"

Okay, maybe she wasn't  _that_  relaxed.

"What?"

"Why do all the girls feel like they need to act like they're straight?" 

I sighed, lying down next to her slightly uncomfortably. Irene stared at the roof, the sound of her breathing filling the otherwise quiet room. "I don't think they're pretending." 

She groaned in annoyance, informing me that that wasn't the correct answer. I decided I wasn't good at this whole 'friendship' thing. If this was a test, I would definitely fail the advice section. 

This was probably the part where I was supposed to comfort her. You know, some overly dramatic bullshit about how 'I'm sure there are other lesbians in the world' or how she 'just hasn't found the one yet', followed by an extremely awkward hug and a coffee. 

But no, I stayed put, making no effort to help my friend, who was currently having a mental breakdown.  _(Wow, great friend, Jim. 10/10 would recommend.)_

My phone, which had apparently fallen out of my pocket and onto the bed between us, obviously chose this moment to receive a message. Irene picked it up for me, sighing as she did so, and I thought nothing of it. It was probably just my mum, she seemed to be one of my only contacts. It was her, Irene and- 

"Who's Sherlock?"

_Well shit..._

"And why is he thanking you for an apple?"

 _Of fucking course_  he chooses to thank me for a fucking apple at the worst possible moment. 

Honestly, I should have seen this coming, because it was so unbelievably predictable. But clearly I was oblivious to this, and the danger of Irene, or anyone for that matter, finding out, because I was so wrapped up in this little bubble of Sherlock, so much so that I became careless. 

But Irene was still waiting for a response, and I was still struggling to come up with one. 

Surely she'd understand. She'd been in this kind of position before, right? She'd dated a teacher before. She'd be fine with it. 

"Jim, who's Sherlock?" Irene asked again. Her voice calm but firm, ironically similar to that of a teacher. 

I took a deep breath, averting my attention to the ceiling. 

She'd understand. 

"Sherlock Holmes." I mumbled quickly, hoping she wouldn't pick up on the last part. 

She did. 

I could feel her suddenly unfriendly gaze burning the side of my face, "Holmes?" 

Nodding anxiously, I bit my lip, anticipating her reaction. 

She sat up beside me, staring down at me intimidatingly. I ignored her. Well,  _tried_  to ignore her.

"As in your science teacher, Mr Holmes?" 

Finding myself once again nodding, I decided that maybe telling her wasn't the best idea, if her accusing tone was anything to go by. A thick tension seeped into the room like water, steadily rising. Unlike the silences with Sherlock, this was more daunting. With this, there was the threat of losing a friend. With this, there was the threat of everyone finding out. This quiet wasn't relaxing, it was _fucking terrifying_.

Irene was deep in thought, meaning that I was left to try and decipher all of her actions from the past five minutes. Depending on how much she'd worked out, she could quite easily ruin everything with a few words. She could tell someone, a teacher perhaps, but they wouldn't believe her because, you know, hormonal teenagers make up rumours about their peers, because that's just what they did, so she could be lying. 

At least, they'd try to convince themselves its a rumour. As soon as the situation had been suggested, the doubt has been placed.  _What if she isn't lying? Why would she lie about something like that? Thinking about it, they do seem close... Actually I think I saw hem leaving school together the other day..._

And suddenly, everything falls into place. 

Before we know it, the rumour isn't just a rumour anymore, and someone's onto us. From there, it only takes the word to spread, which it would inevitably do, because teenagers feed off gossip, and Sherlock and I are more or less screwed. 

But that wouldn't happen, and we'd be fine, because Irene wouldn't do that. 

Right? 

I mean, recently I've been a very poor judge of character. Plus, I haven't known Irene for that long... Maybe she was just like the others...

See what I mean about doubt? 

Irene opened her mouth to speak again, "I don't understan-"

"We're together." I interrupted, deciding that it was better for her to know instead of being left to come to her own conclusions, because, honestly, who knew what she'd come up with. 

There was another one of those awkward silences, and I was pretty fed up of them by now. But, because I'm a stubborn dickhead, I refused to speak first - not that I'd actually know what to say if I did. 

"So you and your science teacher," Irene began skeptically, and I nodded in quite the same manner, "Does he come over and teach you chemistry, or what?" 

Fighting back the urge to laugh, because I found that 'joke' oddly funny and now really wasn't the time to be laughing, I sat up on her bed, still not turning to face her. 

I babbled some nonsense about our relationship, each line cheesier than the last, in an attempt to persuade her not to ruin our lives. Well, I say ruin  _our_  lives. I really mean ruin Sherlock's. Because as soon as someone of authority finds out, he's lost his job, house, everything, and he ends up behind bars. According to the media, it's never the students fault. To the newspapers, Sherlock's made out to be some kind of paedophile. To the internet, Sherlock's just another creep to start a hashtag about. To me, Sherlock's getting the blame for what I did. 

I'd be made out to be a victim. 

After listening to my ramblings, Irene finally voiced her thoughts on the matter:

"That's... That's not right, Jim..."

Her voice faded out to nothing, as if the words hadn't caused the world around me to crash and burn. My heartbeat was the last thing I heard before my entire body became numb. It was as though I was being pushed back and forth by the sea, the waves slowing rising as they did so. They were hypnotising in a somewhat relaxing way. Soon, they we're up to my head, muffling my hearing. I was breathing them in. I was drowning, and I knew I was drowning, but I made no effort of changing this fact. 

"But..." That was the only word I managed to force out. 

"But what? Did you think I'd be able to relate? Did you think that because I've slept with a teacher I'd understand?" Her voice was harsh all of a sudden, making agreeing to anything she was saying a terrifying concept. That was  _exactly_ what I had thought and, in my opinion, it wasn't an entirely ridiculous suggestion. However, she was making me feel like a complete idiot. 

I nodded softly, my voice hushed, "I mean, yeah."

"I slept with him for two reasons, Jim: to up my grade and get him fired. No feelings were involved." Irene sighed, as if all of this was obvious. Admittedly, it probably was, just not to me, "This just... This is  _illegal_."

I froze.

She was going to tell. 

She was going to tell. 

_She. was. going. to. tell._

She was going to tell, and Sherlock would be sent to jail, and this would ruin his life, and everyone would hate me, and I'd get bullied, and everything would go to shit, because she knew, and  _she was going to tell_. 

And my mum would find out, and she'd hate me, and she'd kick me out, and I'd be homeless, because no one would take me in, because everyone would hate me, including myself.

Because she knew. 

And she was going to tell. 

This was the exact moment my body had to decide between fight or flight. My heart was racing, my palms sweating, each breath quick and limited. I was completely disconnected from my body, the numbing sensation spreading to my brain like a deadly disease. I would have to decide quick: Fight or flight. 

Fight.

Or.

Flight.

There was no way I was running from this. 

"Please," My voice came out raspy, the apparent lump in my throat almost impossible to swallow, "Please don't tell anyone." 

Irene watched me carefully as I tried to plead with my visibly tear filled eyes. Due to my blurry vision, I couldn't read her expression as she whispered, "I think you should go."

Deciding not to argue, avoiding making it worse at all costs, I stood up shakily, grabbing all of my belongings, including the phone that caused all this mess. For a moment, I contemplated throwing it against the wall, the floor, anywhere that would break it, because I sure as hell didn't want it anymore. 

I left the house feeling as though I was floating rather than walking. I couldn't feel my hand on the door handle. I couldn't feel the wind hitting my face. I couldn't hear the cars rushing past. I was numb. 

 _She was going to tell._  


	11. Chapter 11

_"And it's all fun and games,_   
_'til somebody falls in love."_

_\- Carousel_   
_Melanie Martinez_

The fact that I hadn't seen Irene all day should have worried me. I mean, it would have if she hadn't been avoiding me all week. 

You see, after the initial 24 hours of paranoia, the fear kind of died down after realising that she hadn't, and probably wouldn't, tell anyone. She wasn't that much of a bitch. I was her friend and she seemed to like Sherlock - it wasn't hard considering he was one of the better, more charismatic, and definitely more attractive teachers in the school. Surely she would't be stupid enough to loose both - especially not Sherlock. I'm about 99% sure most of the school, particularly the female population, would riot. And anyway, we were pretty damn cute together if you ignored the legal side of things. 

Even if she did happen to tell anyone, what exactly would she say? Mr Holmes and Jim are sleeping together? We can easily deny that, because if by 'sleeping together' she means having sex, we  _haven't_ done that...

Yet.

If she doesn't actually mean it like that, though, and she means it literally, then we  _have_  done that. 

Last weekend, the weekend directly after I told Irene, I found myself back at Sherlock's flat. We sat on the sofa, Sherlock's arm rested on the back of it, my head snuggled into his shoulder. I remember talking. Talking about nothing and everything and anything in-between. Talking about school and 'that one news article I saw online' and under appreciated words such as 'flabbergasted'. Talking about our relationship and how we have to be careful and briefly about how terrified I was that this was going to go wrong - Sherlock reached for my hand after I mentioned that, reassuring me without the use of words. 

In a haze of pure comfort and happiness, I fell asleep, a small smile etched onto my tired features. You see, I hadn't been able to sleep after telling Irene due to my anxiety keeping me awake, refusing to let me relax for more than a minute before reminding me of my mistake. It kept me awake as the digits on the clock changed, their red glow burning the back of my eyes. It kept me awake as the darkness seeped into both the corners of my room and the corners of my mind. In short, my mental state was perfectly reflected in the state of my room at night. When the bright, happy exterior the world had somehow managed to fake all day faded, the darkness reigned, and only the few who found themselves copying this behaviour remained awake through the early hours of the morning. 

But that day I fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder and, for a while, until I woke up and the harsh reality dawned on me, I was happy. 

So if she meant sleeping like that, then yes, we had slept together. 

As for the person she tells, we'll just have to be careful around them to avoid making them suspicious. 

We'd just have to be careful. 

We could do careful. 

We'd be fine. 

I walked through the school corridor silently, like I had been doing for the past 10 minutes. I had nothing better to do, Irene was playing hide and seek and Sherlock wasn't in his classroom. And, just like before all of this happened, I was invisible again. I forgot how much I missed the serenity of being alone.

Struggling through the overly crowded corridors, I focused on the floor, therefore avoiding eye contact with everyone. I had figured it out a while ago - if you don't draw attention to yourself, no one will notice you, which was essentially the main goal. It wasn't exactly rocket science, but, at the time, it was exactly what I needed. I didn't want to stand out. I didn't want people to pay attention to me. I wanted to blend in, to become practically invisible. 

However now I feel the complete opposite. Well, sort of. I want to make an impact on the world, do something I'll be remembered for or that will provide purpose for my otherwise meaningless existence. I don't want to be like everyone else. I don't want to 'fall in love' and settle down. I don't want to be stuck in a dead-end job. I want to enjoy myself. I want people to remember me. I want to do something worthwhile. Not necessarily good, but something that will be sure to get me noticed. 

Basically, I want to stand out without standing out. 

But who in their right mind would bother paying attention to me? I'm not interesting. I'm not exciting. I'm not worth anyone's time. I'm literally just Jim Moriarty and the sooner I realise that the better. 

Whilst I was wrapped up in panicking about my future, I somehow managed to walk directly into Mr Holmes, who almost knocked me over, which explained why his hands were now on both of my shoulders, preventing me from falling. 

"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice laced with worry. 

"Are you okay?" He had asked when I had unexpectedly turned up on his doorstep. 

"Yeah..." I had answered both times. 

Only one of them was a lie. 

Sherlock, realising all the students around us, quickly retracted his hands away. He scratched the back of his neck mentioning as casually as he could, "I was just looking for you." 

"Is this about me needing a new book?" I asked, subtly trying to inform him that there was a perfectly good, most likely unused supply cupboard at end of this very corridor that we could easily continue this conversation in. Luckily for me, because I really couldn't be bothered to spell it out for him, Sherlock got the hint. 

"Oh yeah," Sherlock 'played along', this making it sound incredibly forced. It was followed up by a very blatant, very cringeworthy wink, "Let me get you one from the cupboard."

Following close behind him as he walked, the students seemingly parting like a sea, I managed to stop myself from aggressively rolling my eyes, because this was exactly like the plot to a cheesy porno, and that was definitely not was I had planned. 

Sherlock led me into the cupboard, allowing the door to fall behind him before locking it. He turned around, leaning back on the door awkwardly, realising by my facial expressions that this was, in fact, not an invitation for sex. I'd be lying if I said he didn't look disappointed, but by this point he was used to it.

"Are you sure you're okay, Jim?"

The truth was no. I most definitely was not okay. During my journey down the hallway I'd somehow managed to traumatise my own brain, which was actually a pretty impressive feat. Not many normal, sane, un-psychologically damaged human beings can pull that off.

I can't voice my thoughts to Sherlock, though. He wouldn't understand. He can't hear the voices. He can't help me; no one can. 

Self hatred truly is a terrifying thing, because there's nothing more scary than being at war with your own brain. There's nothing beautiful or romantic about it. It's not cured by true loves kiss. No matter how many compliments you receive, the words are still lies to you, because who on earth could like anything about you? You are your own worst critic, and it's the worst feeling in the world because nothing is ever going to be good enough. It's overwhelmingly destructive. It's a never ending battle. It's... It's...

Sherlock was still watching me intently, patiently waiting for an answer. I nodded with just the right amount of force to make it look believable. "Why wouldn't I be?" I asked, but I could list about 10 reasons. 

Either he really couldn't care less or he was gullible as fuck because, for some unknown reason, he accepted that as an answer. 

I ran a hand through my hair self consciously, unsure as to why this situation had become awkward all of a sudden. It was probably my fault - what wasn't these days. Suddenly the cupboard seemed simultaneously too big and too small. I was distant from Sherlock, feeling as though I was on the other side of the room instead of a few feet in front of him, but I felt claustrophobic. I had no way to explain it to myself, let alone anyone else.

I was completely alone.

Hugging my arms to my chest, because I suddenly needed the support they provided, I found myself stuck in place. I couldn't move, speak, breathe. I was trapped inside my own body, an invisible force wrapping a hand around my throat and preventing me from leaving or calling out for help. All logic fled causing a wave of fear to wash over me, pulling me down into the deepest, darkest depths of my thoughts and leaving me there to drown. 

"Jim?" The word echoed, as if it was a distant memory.

My legs buckled beneath me and I fell to the floor. I didn't feel anything, like my body was shutting down to protect me. I didn't cry, I didn't speak, I just let it happen. I knew exactly what was happening, it was just a panic attack. It would pass. Everything would be okay. 

Sherlock's arms were around me, rocking me gently like I was a baby. 

_Don't be such a fucking baby, Jim._

I forced my eyes closed and buried my head in Sherlock's chest, as if that was enough to block out the thoughts that enveloped me. He held me tight until I calmed down, whispering generic supportive things like "it's going to be okay" even though we both knew it wasn't. It wasn't even about the current situation anymore, it was about the fact that every single thing that happened between us could later be taken out of context and used against him in court. 

We both moved so that our backs were to the wall, my head moving from his chest to his shoulder. No words were spoken for a while - neither of us quite knowing which were the right ones to say. Whilst we were frozen, the world around us continued to turn. The other students trudged down the corridors and the other teachers prepared their lessons, each of them none the wiser to what was happening in the seemingly unused supply cupboard at the end of the corridor.

"What's up?" Sherlock whispered after a few moments, his hand finding its way to my own.

"A lot." I replied truthfully.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"I will be."


	12. Chapter 12

_"Until we find our way in the dark and out of harm,_  
_You can run away with me anytime you want."_

 _\- Summertime_  
_My Chemical Romance_

Through the dark stillness of my bedroom, my phone beside me, which, thank every God I didn't currently believe in, was on silent, vibrated on my beside table, effortlessly illuminating the room around me. I reached over to grab it sleepily, checking the name before answering, you know, just to make sure it wasn't the police or some shit like that. Not that the police would have any reason to call me, obviously... 

Anyway, it would be more likely that the person on the other end of the phone was a salesperson from some exotic country I'd never heard of trying to sell me compensation or something else I really did not give the slightest fuck about, especially not at like 4 in the morning. I wasn't the most sociable person in the first place, let alone whilst I was half asleep.

Needless to say that the person on the other end of the phone was not, in fact, either of the above. 

"Sherlock?" I asked croakily, the lack of sleep evident in my voice. Yes, I still hadn't been sleeping. Sherlock bloody Holmes did not turn up out of the blue and cure that, because that's not how life works. He didn't come along, kiss me and then suddenly 'oh would you look at that? I've magically been cured of my depression!' because that's honestly just fucking stupid. 

His voice was soothing, monotone with just the right level of concern, "Sorry, did I wake you?" 

"No," I yawned, ruining my point entirely.

The line fell dead for a moment and I made the executive decision to wait it out. Sherlock had called  _me_  in the first place. 

"I know it's early but..." he paused, searching for the correct words to use, "You  _did_  give me your number..."

"It's okay, I thought you might call." A quick glance over to the red digits on the clock beside me confirmed my belief that it was well past midnight, "Although, I didn't think you'd call at half 2 in the morning."

"Sorry," Sherlock sighed, the worry in his voice clear once again, this sending me into a state of panic. Had I seriously upset him already? 

I made a mental note to tread carefully in order to not make it worse. 

Peering through the thin gap in the curtains, my tired eyes were met by almost complete darkness. It was raining again, not that that was a particular surprise considering the fact that I  _did_  live in England and it  _was_  winter. The raindrops splattered rhythmically against the window, desperately clinging to the pane of glass that separated me from the rest of the world, carefully lit by the orange glow of the streetlights. It was atmospheric, sure, but it was also incredibly, indescribably annoying. I mean, would it really kill the UK to, you know, let the sun appear every once in a while? 

Lost in thought, I barely heard the shuffling of papers on the other end of the phone. 

"Why are you still awake?" I asked, my question not particularly to Sherlock anymore, but to the moon, the rain, the walls, perhaps even to myself. 

He sighed. 

"I'm still planning lessons for tomorrow." Of course he's planning lessons because _he_ _'s_ _a teacher._ That's what teachers do. It's literally their job. I really needed to stop forgetting the illegal side of this relationship. He paused for a moment - possibly yawning, possibly sighing - before continuing, "I really should not be a teacher, Jim. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Why don't you just call in sick?" I asked, only half-joking. Sure, it wasn't the most 'professional' approach but hey, it sorted out the aforementioned issue. And anyway, I wasn't the adult in this situation, he should have known better than to trust me if this all goes to shit, which it inevitably would. I'm young and therefore allowed to suggest terrible ideas, right? Even if the answer was no, I was still going to use that as my excuse, because people my age are supposed to make mistakes. At least, that's what we've been taught throughout our lives - mistakes ' _shape the person we become_ ' or whatever - up until the point where they all start to add up, and the mistakes become more serious, and the person we've become as a result is no longer recognisable as the young, naive kid they once were. 

Or, you know, something like that...

"I was hoping you'd say that..." Sherlock trailed off, subtly implying that he'd planned out this conversation in advance. Perhaps the shuffling papers I'd heard, and, as a result, ignored earlier were actually pages from a script. Maybe I was under surveillance. What if everything around me was a set, and everyone I'd become aquatinted with was an actor, and nothing around me was real?

Or maybe it was just 2am and I was paranoid. 

It was probably the latter. 

After a few moments of waiting, I realised he wasn't going to elaborate, "What do you mean?"

"How would you feel about coming on a trip with me tomorrow?"

That was a good question - how  _would_  I feel? I suppose it all came down to what his idea of a trip entailed. If this was some kind of sickeningly cliché attempt to persuade me to jump into bed with him later, it wasn't going to work. At least, I didn't think it would work. I used to pride myself on avoiding highly predictable scenarios, which I suppose is predictable in itself, but considering how half of my interactions with Sherlock have played out, my life has become some kind of crappy TV soap opera. But, for the moment, I was happy. Not completely overwhelmed with happiness, but far from sad, meaning that I didn't particularly care about the fact that I was becoming a big fat cliché. 

"You mean skipping school?" I momentarily managed to convince myself that I actually cared about my education.

"Not necessarily..."

"Well, what else could you call it?" 

"Spending some much needed time with my boyfriend."

My heart started thumping in my chest as if it was triggered by that final word. That word - boyfriend. I repeated it in my head, testing it out, trial running it. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Sure, I knew that we were in a relationship, but hearing it confirmed out loud made my insides turn to jelly. Every single atom in my body seemed to smile with me. Boyfriend.  _Boyfriend._

I'm pretty sure my smile came through with my words, "You know, I can't just give up my education to go galavanting with some," I paused for maximum impact, as if planning an attack, " _boy_."

Despite himself, Sherlock laughed. Although soft, his laughter seemed to cause every cell in my body to tingle with glee with the knowledge that I had caused that involuntary chuckle, and soon, I found myself giggling as well. It felt good to have pure happiness radiate through me, mixing with my blood and warming me from the inside, even if only for a short while.

Perhaps this is what It felt like. Maybe this feeling was the feeling that every author spent hours trying to define perfectly, only to discover that their description is laced head to toe with clichés. Was that the beauty of It? Was every single case of 'falling for someone' was the same? The same emotions? The same scenarios? Was the point of It that you couldn't describe It? That little four letter word beginning with an L.

Was that what  _this_  was?

No, it couldn't be. This was just a concoction of dopamine and lack of sleep. I was just overthinking again - classic 2am Jim. 

Sherlock's voice was a very welcome distraction from this sudden tangent, "Of course not. Wouldn't want to upset mummy."

"Obviously," I rolled my eyes, hoping my sarcasm came through in my tone.

"So you'll come with me then?"

"Who said anything about that?" 

"Great, I'll meet you at the train station. 8:30."

I groaned, "What? No lie in?" 

And I swear I could hear him smiling. 

"See you there, Jim." 

And then he hung up.

And I was plunged into darkness with an annoyingly prominent smile on my face.

~-~-~-~-~

With my arms crossed firmly across my chest in a desperate attempt to protect myself from the cold, I waited nervously at the train station. Sherlock was busy buying the tickets to God knows where - he wouldn't tell me, all part of the surprise element of our date,  _apparently._ This scenario wouldn't be out of place in a cheesy chick flick, which ultimately made me want to throw up, but I let it slide for once and chose not to be a complete dick about it. He  _had_  made an effort, after all. 

My eyes darted along the platform, taking in every inch of detail to keep myself occupied. I started with the people nearby, deciding their backstories. For example, the woman beside me was, rather boringly, on her way to work - this made clear by her slightly creased pinstriped trouser suit. She didn't seem to enjoy her job; she probably worked in an office. Most people in her position would most likely be searching for other job opportunities by now. The only reason for her staying is, and this is where it gets interesting, she evidently likes one of her coworkers, and, in a desperate attempt to get their attention, went and bought new shoes, which were already beginning to rub, and apparently needed to apply lip balm every few minutes. 

An elderly couple perched on a bench at the furthest end of the platform. They avoided conversation,  but not as if they'd just had a fight. In fact, they both seemed quite content in the silence, as if it was a prearranged agreement between the pair not to make polite, yet unnecessary chit-chat. The man read the paper, most likely the sports section, whilst the woman stared aimlessly across the track. I presumed they were just going shopping, despite the woman's constant need to check her watch to make sure the train wasn't running late. To onlookers, they appeared content, a generic old couple. There wasn't much to decipher about them. The only point of any interest was the flask in the man's pocket. Surely that wasn't needed if they were going shopping?

I was rather abruptly dragged from my stalker-like haze by two hands on my shoulders, shocking me into consciousness. I assumed it was Sherlock, and swivelled in my spot to face him. Instead, I was greeted by two tickets, each with the destination obscured.

Sherlock pulled the tickets away, safely tucking them away in his coat pocket, "Miss me?"

"How could I not?" I deadpanned, turning back towards the track. Holmes was by my side almost automatically, like an animalistic instinct. I smiled inwardly. 

With the back of his hand still facing mine, he intertwined our little fingers in a way I didn't imagine would be comforting. I was wrong. His touch sent what felt like an electrical charge through my arm, making my world become fuzzy for a moment. The self-titled faux 'electricity' coursed through my veins momentarily, my cheeks gently flushing in the process. The sleeve of his coat tickled my wrists as my stomach filled with what could only be described as butterflies. There was something about performing any remotely romantic acts in public that made my head spin. School seemed more manageable compared to this; we knew where everyone would be during our lunch dates, if you could even call them dates. Out here, the daunting mass of people was completely out of our control. This was the real world, and it was the definition of unpredictable. Literally anyone could see us here and that was terrifying to me.

Still, despite myself and my fears, I squeezed his finger lightly, both the aforementioned butterflies and my smile growing every second. 

~-~-~-~-~

After what could only have been half an hour or so, we arrived at our destination. Sherlock helped me to my feet before directing me towards the door, his hand delicately placed on the small of my back. I cautiously stepped off the train whilst Sherlock managed the task in a much more casual manor. After quickly scanning the platform for anyone recognisable, I tried to keep up with Sherlock as he strode towards the exit, pulling his coat collar up as he went. 

We wandered around the local area for a while, Sherlock visibly confident in his knowledge of where we were going. I silently cursed myself for not checking the signs when we reached the platform; I had absolutely no clue where we were. Nevertheless, I didn't ask questions as Holmes was clearly on a 'mission' and tried to deduce our location from my surroundings. 

Jogging slightly to catch up with Sherlock, I narrowly avoided the remaining murky puddles which lay seemingly untouched on the cobblestone path beneath me. We were in a town - quite a small, old fashioned one at that. There was the odd shop here and there, but otherwise the street appeared to be empty - more or less abandoned. The leftover rain droplets made their last attempt of escape, dripping from the rooftops and running wild like a tear down a cheek towards the congregation of drops I'd had the decency to avoid, before the wind inevitably blew them off course towards a drain. I presumed Sherlock hadn't anticipated the weather when he planned our trip, which I was still yet to understand. There was a thin, almost unnoticeable slither of light through the mass of grey. At least the sun was  _trying_  to break through the clouds.

I pulled on the sleeves of my oversized jumper to retain heat, "Where are we going?"

"We're almost there," Sherlock promised, slowing down to allow me time to catch up. 

I sighed, my breath appearing as a puff in the cold, typically British air.

After walking for a few more uncomfortably silent minutes, we finally rounded the corner. The first thing I noticed was the noise. The lack of conversation between Sherlock and I was made up for by a loud eruption of chatter from several different parties. A reasonably large tent stood before us, filled with easily over a hundred people. As we got closer, I realised that it was full of science equipment and couldn't contain my laughter. 

"A fucking science festival?" I covered my face with my hands to hide my flushed face, shaking my head in the process, "You are such a nerd." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock shuffle his feet awkwardly and I immediately felt like a dick. Quickly reaching for his hand to reassure him, I added, "Kidding. I love it." His face seemed to light up at that. 

I dragged him into the tent, any fear of being caught washed to the back of my mind by a wonderfully unexpected flood of happiness.

We spent the next hour or so running around the tent like little kids who'd just arrived at Disneyland after digesting far more sugar than was healthy, making sure that every single experiment was investigated, every corner of the festival was covered, and every demonstration was attended. Of course, Sherlock would stop every so often to correct the information displayed with a witty comment he'd definitely spent a considerably large amount of time coming up with. I humoured him, revelling in the way his mouth moulded into a heart melting grin as I laughed. Surely it wasn't normal that he seemed to have such a dangerous impact on my heart. Would the vital organ spontaneously combust one day because he just so happened to smile in a certain way? Would his mouth be the death of me? 

Crap, I was overthinking again.

I focused on Sherlock's most recent tangent, something about how they'd gotten the chemical equation for potassium wrong or some shit like that followed by an extensive explanation which was probably worthy of an A*, in an attempt to distract myself. It seemed to work - for a while, at least. I managed to manipulate my focal point from the thoughts that seemed to selfishly grab my attention to the way the sunlight, or lack there of, highlighted the contours of his nose and his ever prominent cheekbones. To the way his pale, slightly chapped lips moved in comparison to the words flowing out of them. 

He was so goddamn beautiful. 

And today that information hit me like a ton of bricks because it confirmed my fear that I was falling for him, and probably always had been. 

"Jim?" Sherlock's expression was laced with concern. I forced my mouth into a rather unconvincing smile. 

And I clamped my mouth shut because the three little words were on the tip of my tongue and the fact that they could be true terrified me. 

"Are you okay?" He asked taking my hand in his which really did not help my situation. My entire arm felt like it was burning under his touch and my breath visibly hitched. I gave him a casual yepimtotallyfinehahahanothingtoseeherewowyouhaveprettyeyesshitithinkiminloveyouhahaha nod before retracting my arm, ceasing the undeniably evident sensation. 

Sherlock looked at me skeptically before continuing his science orientated rant as if nothing had happened whilst I contemplated what it fucks name I was planning on doing next.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is in 2 parts, hence the song being split up. okay, cool.

_"'Cause you're such a pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty face..."_

As the train jolted rhythmically over the seemingly prearranged, almost patterned, bumps in the track, I held Sherlock's hand in my lap. Holmes gazed out of the already fogged up window quietly, lost deep in his thoughts, you know, casually contemplating the meaning of existence or some existential shit similar. Leaving him to it, I took to playing with his hand in content silence for no reason other than to touch him, even if in its simplest form. I trailed my thumb over a small paper cut on his index finger. Bar that, he had practically no imperfections; no blemishes, and I revelled in his God-like appearance in the daylight. I traced my finger over the constellations of barely visible freckles on his skin, counting them as I went. Once I was well into double digits, the train shook once again.

The strangers around us ignored our existence, too busy caught up in their own little worlds full of stories, drama and other ultimately unimportant thoughts. A women, clad in office attire, relaxed into her seat at the front of the carriage. She was engrossed in her phone, a firm, lipgloss coated smile etched into her pale complexion. Judging by the way her fingers raced across the keyboard, she must have got that date after all. 

Beside us, an old man reached into his pocket, pulled out a flask and poured two drinks. He passed it to his partner without waiting to be asked, as if they could read each other, their relationship strong enough to form some kind of mutual mind-reading ability. She took it gratefully, kissing his cheek to show her appreciation. They snuggled closer to each other, sipping their drinks silently. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Sherlock, secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe, we'd be like that someday... 

The carriage jostled violently, spilling the women's drink and causing anonymous gasps to spill from the passengers lips. A few even mumbled words of frustration under their breath, their whispers mixing with that of the wind. I sighed. Sherlock sighed with me.

When important, romance related questions are asked in films, the room is usually unnaturally silent. Time slows to a halt, as if the whole world has stopped just for two people to have their 'special moment'. Some natural source of light, usually the moon, is glinting across every surface, illuminating the room to enhance the romantic atmosphere. And then the question is asked, always confidently. Whether it be a wedding proposal or an invite to prom, you can practically hear everyone's breath catch in their throats. There's a small pause, although the answer is always the same. It always seems to be yes, as if any other response is completely out of the question. 

Frankly, it was all bullshit.

In fact, I barely heard Sherlock's question, and none of it - not the setting, the atmosphere,  _nothing_  - was even remotely dramatic or life changing. 

"Do you love me?" He asked so quietly I originally thought he was talking to himself. His reflection was hardly visible through the cloudy window, but from what I could see, he seemed sad. Not nervous as such, not sad enough to cry, but there was definitely something different about the way he stared at the track beneath us. He looked...  _guilty?_

I averted my attention from Sherlock to the elderly couple. 

The idea of soulmate's wasn't ever something I believed in. To me, it was just a worldwide obsession. A self-created delusion designed entirely out of the fear of being alone. 

It wasn't even a nice idea. What were the chances that these 'soulmates' would meet? What were the odds that these people, these 'matches', would even be in the same country, or the same city? Who's to say their paths would even cross? Surely it would mean that almost everyone in the world is with the wrong person - that there's someone even better for them out there. No one would ever be happy in a relationship, paranoid that they're wasting their lives with the wrong person. 

In my opinion, this idea, this phenomenon, was just a concoction of chemistry, biology and hormones - all wrapped up in some make-believe bubble of happily ever after. A notion created purely to sell romantic fiction and give false hope to nations of single hopeless romantics.

But as I looked at the couple beside us, carefully sharing coffee from a flask, I realised that these people were my understanding of a perfect match. They just seemed so relaxed, so happy, so... in  _love_. Excuse the cliché, but they just seemed to fit - like puzzle pieces. I smiled at the pair, except this expression seemed to have been corrupted with a sadness I didn't fully understand. 

Sherlock still required an answer though, and I hadn't completely convinced myself with the one I was about to provide. 

"I don't know..." I replied instead, shrugging in a way I hope came across as nonchalant.

The man beside me accepted my response, though, and turned to me with the same sad smile that plagued my own face a only few moments prior. He turned his hand to face my own, our fingers interlocking almost instinctively. I don't think anything would ever quite be able to compare to the comfort I felt when Sherlock took my hand.

The train continued to jump, and the world continued to turn, only helping to conclude my belief that the universe didn't give the slightest fuck about Sherlock and I. The thing was, when I was with Sherlock Holmes, the feeling was mutual.

~-~-~-~-~

The next day started just like any other, with the sun rising. 

I groaned in annoyance as my alarm screamed in my ear, only serving to remind me that school still existed no matter how much I tried to avoid it. The only redeeming factor was seeing Sherlock again which, by this point, was the only reason I bothered going. It was pretty tragic. 

I dragged myself out of bed, threw on my uniform and trudged downstairs, my enthusiasm not dissimilar to that of a zombie. With my daily morning routine in mind, I headed to the kitchen, stopping in my tracks once I saw the woman in the corner. 

"Good morning, Jim." My mother smiled, leaning back against the counter and taking a careful sip of her tea.

Sighing, I scavenged the fridge for anything edible - which didn't seem an awful lot, "That's a bit presumptuous, isn't it? How do you know it's not going to be an entirely average morning, or even a terrible morning?" 

"Jim." She warned with a look as if to say ' _don't be difficult_ '. I raised my hands in mock surrender, expertly closing the fridge door with my foot after opting for toast - it was half seven in the morning, I wasn't exactly up for cooking a 5-star gourmet meal.

After dropping some (hopefully not stale) bread into the toaster, I waited. This situation felt a hell of a lot more awkward as soon as I was unoccupied. Probably noticeably uncomfortable, I fiddled with the nondescript objects beside me.

She was odd. My mum, I mean. Not necessarily a bad or a good odd, just... odd. She acted like an old woman but dressed like she was in her twenties. Although she'd never admit it, her natural auburn hair was greying. Her eyesight was gradually deteriorating along with her health, this made clear from the prescriptions that lay neatly in the corner, receiving additions almost every other day. I didn't mention them.

I'd never really truly taken the time to actually acknowledge or even appreciate her efforts. She spent nine months hauling an ungrateful bump around, constantly promised that the results, the ' _miracle of life_ ', would be worth it in the end. And then out popped me - pretty much the dictionary definition of an asshole... She deserved better. 

Neither of us had ever really made any effort to get to know each other. We never had those mother/son bonding sessions growing up, but, I suppose, we both preferred it that way. It was just the two of us in our household, but we were completely separate entities. There was a definite distance between us and, at the time, that suited us both. Or maybe it just suited me.

Now I just felt guilty...

"Aren't you supposed to be at," I waved my right hand around as if searching for the words, my speech directed primarily at the objects as I nudged them with my left hand, "at work or something?"

"I don't work of Friday's"  _Of course she didn't. And I should have known that, you know, being her son and all._

The guilt seemed to multiply and I swear I've never wanted toast to pop up more than I had in that moment. 

Wait, that meant Sherlock took me out on a Thursday? Surely that was a weird day to choose to go out? Couldn't he have waited until the weekend? I mean, the festival would have still been on - I checked on the website... There wasn't really any logical reason for him to have taken me out yesterday as apposed to Saturday or Sunday - I doubt any people from school would attend if that was what he was afraid of.

Was he... hiding something?

_Of course not. Don't be ridiculous, Jim. You're paranoid._

I suddenly became wildly aware of the faint scent of burning under my nose and promptly rescued my blackened bread from its temporary metal confinement. Inwardly groaning, I chucked it in the bin, severely disappointed in my lack of basic culinary skill. My mother appeared unfazed. 

I haphazardly slung my backpack over my shoulder, electing to skip breakfast rather than risk being late for school, which was an unusual decision to have to make. Regardless, I mumbled some sort of half-arsed goodbye before power walking towards the school, the guilt eventually subsiding whilst the anxiety stayed rooted at the forefront of my mind.

~-~-~-~-~

By the time I reached the school gates, merely the prospect of seeing Sherlock again was enough to cause a smile to erupt onto my face. My stomach literally felt like a fucking volcano, so much so that it actually made it painful to restrain my grin. When did I become such a goddamn mess? It was fucking pathetic, honestly. I don't remember signing up for these emotions.

Nevertheless, I spent the majority of the school day walking around feeling like an over shaken bottle of champagne and looking like the human equivalent of the sun from the teletubbies, all of which was a considerable change in character. 

Although I hadn't seen the cause of this overly optimistic state all day, I  _had_  spotted Irene. She had been strutting down the corridor as if it was a runway, her arm rather cringely linked with that of a girl I couldn't be bothered to learn the name of. Whilst they giggled their way down the hallway, the most interaction I received was probably an ominously short, almost restricted moment of eye contact. 

I opted to ignore it.

A few hours later, I found myself heading to Sherlock's classroom at lunch for our daily ritual of distracting each other from the hundreds of students on the other side of the disturbingly thin walls. I peered through the tiny window in the door quickly, scanning for any evidence of human life. A few minutes of searching brought up a concerning conclusion:

He wasn't in his room.

I refused to allow myself any time to panic, assuring myself that he was probably just in a meeting...

_Or busy getting fired for dating a student._

I internally groaned. 

There were so many logical answers for this situation, why the ever-loving fuck did I always focus on the negative? No one knew about us. Sherlock was just busy. Everything was  _fine_. 

_Everything is fine._

_Everything is fine._

It's funny - if you say it multiple times, you almost begin to believe it.

~-~-~-~-~

_"...but you turned into a pretty big waste of my time."_

_\- If You Can't Hang_  
_Sleeping With Sirens_

Despite the minor hiccup, I reached the science labs with the slightly less natural grin on my face. I took my seat, noting that Sherlock wasn't here just yet, and took a deep breath. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out everything I needed, placing it on to my desk almost mechanically. 

As per usual, most other students were discussing topics of "utmost importance", aka who was sleeping with who or how much of a bitch Sally was - which was something everyone could agree on, apparently - but today was ever so slightly different. 

A group of girls, who honestly looked like they were competing for the " _who can wear the least amount of clothes whilst still miraculously managing to stay within the school uniform regulations_ " prize rather than attending a science lesson, huddled around a desk, giggling about something or another. I chose to listen in, for once actually interested in what the hell they were laughing about. 

"You didn't!" 

I aggressively rolled my eyes, seriously considering changing my mind.

As if summoned by the mere mention of drama, another girl joined the flock, "What are you guys talking about?"

Another round of laughter ensued and I had to stop myself from sarcastically imitating it. There was silence for a moment before one of them blurted out, "Kate slept with a teacher!" followed by a theatric display in which she slapped her hand over her mouth as if she'd given the slightest fuck about keeping it a secret for longer than 5 seconds in the first place. It was  _nearly_  believable.

Almost everyone turned to look at Kate, who was perfectly achieving a coy, yet bitchy, smile. They instantly began bombarding her with questions, which was to be expected considering more than half the student's sole purpose was to retrieve gossip and promptly proceed to spread it around like a deadly disease. I usually tried to keep myself above it all, but today I found myself sinking to their level, actually wasting brain cells wondering which poor sod was the subject of this teenage melodrama.

"No way! Which one?" The same girl asked far too enthusiastically, simultaneously voicing my thought in the most obnoxious way possible.

Whispers erupted between The Girls Who Knew™ whilst the unaware waited eagerly. It was as if they'd learnt all their news-telling skills from some kind of crappy tween film. The girls were hooked, though, and Kate knew exactly how to milk the situation.

She giggled one final time before announcing her victim, "Mr Holmes!" 

I didn't even have time to process my words before they'd flung from my mouth, "What the fuck?"

"Sorry Jimmy. Forgot you had your eyes on Mr Holmes."

Laughter. So much laughter. It seemed to have been amplified thousands of times.

Through the mocking laughter, only one statement was audible, "It's not exactly like you had a chance anyway." 

Without thinking, I leapt from my seat and ran to the doorway. My head was spinning. The words became talons and wrapped themselves around my throat. 

_I didn't understand._

_I didn't understand._

_I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND._

This wasn't  _supposed_  to happen. None of this was  _supposed_  to happen. Students weren't  _supposed_  to date teachers. People weren't  _supposed_  to cheat on their partners. But it happened regardless. Because the world just isn't fucking fair.

The worst part of it all was that this didn't come as a huge shock to me. 

I hadn't anticipated it, of course, but I had certainly entertained the possibility during one of my 3am anxiety induced late night thoughts. I'd assumed it would be with someone older, though. And, you know, male, considering he was gay as heck. Life is full of surprises, I guess. 

And then I bumped into the man in question. 

"Jim? Where are you going?" Sherlock asked innocently, placing his hand on my shoulder to prevent me from leaving.

I didn't feel sadness, or anger, or betrayal - the emotions you'd expect me to feel; I just felt numb, "You slept with Kate." It wasn't a question, it was a statement defined by the confidence in the words. 

As if a switch had been flipped, Sherlock launched into his defensive mode, "Excuse me?"

Silence, like a spoilt little brat having a tantrum. 

This was supposed to be the part where I started screaming at him, hitting him weakly through floods of unstoppable tears. I was supposed to feel  _something_  at the very least. All the films showed the victims of this irritatingly common situation, victims, if you will, throwing chairs across the room, smashing photos of once-happy times, almost physically shattering right before the sinners very eyes. 

I simply readjusted my backpack. 

"Jim," Sherlock began his protest, my remarkably calm nature contrasting his desperate tone, "I didn't-"

Shaking my head softly, I sighed with a small smile, "Don't bother."

His arm fell from my own as he took a step back, realising that the only thing I needed right now was space.

_And someone who wouldn't lie to me..._

Still remaining alarmingly relaxed, I headed towards the door, not even bothering to stop and acknowledge Sherlock as he desperately called after me.


	14. Chapter 14

_"And if I believe you,_  
_will that make it stop?"_

 _\- The 1975_  
_If I Believe You_

Rocks ricocheted off the walls like bullets as I threw them halfheartedly. I was perched - more like squashed - in a narrow gap between two more or less abandoned buildings. They used to be used as extra classrooms for the lessons the school didn't deem important enough for the main building. New areas were allocated after an unavoidable number of complaints from the teachers who, for some reason, cared about the location of their classrooms, probably due to the lack of aesthetic value rather than the quality of learning. I mean, to be fair, the buildings were just about finding the strength to keep standing - similar to most of the schools occupants. 

This place was usually inhabited by the few addicts who couldn't wait 5 minutes for their next fix, but today it was empty, allowing my mental breakdown to take place in private. Well, I say mental breakdown - I still didn't feel anything.

I picked another stone at random, hesitating for a moment before lobbing it towards the bricks. A thought, fleeting but important nonetheless, lodged itself in my mind.  _Could the rocks feel the impact?_  After pondering on this for a moment, I allowed the object in question to drop to the ground. Another question;  _could the earth feel my weight? Could the grass feel anything as it was mercilessly shredded by hundreds of bored hands belonging to hundreds of bored people? Or were these inanimate objects just like me?_

I categorised this sudden contemplation as 'probably a result of the lingering scent of weed' and pulled my knees up to my chest. 

Had I always felt like this - or not felt anything at all in this case? I couldn't have. I'd felt so many emotions recently; why didn't I feel any now? I was supposed to be devastated, but I just  _wasn't_. I couldn't even force myself to be angry, as if that was a foreign concept to my body. 

When I was young, first year of school young, my class were asked to draw our family. We all set out on this seemingly simple task, creating amalgamations of our relatives with unnaturally long arms protruding from unnaturally long faces. My drawing was a self-proclaimed work of art - Picasso would have been proud. It displayed my mum and myself, positioned on separate sides of the provided box.

One of the helpers peered over my shoulder. "Is that where your dads going to go?" she asked, directing my attention to the abnormally large gap between the characters. 

I shrugged, "I don't have a dad." 

She immediately began rubbing my back sympathetically, offering apologies I didn't fully understand. That's what people did when you were crying -  _why was she doing it to me?_  I wasn't crying. Should I have been crying? I wasn't upset. I didn't understand.

When she finally left, I took to colouring my picture, ignoring the sudden uncharacteristic turn of events and focusing on pressing the pencil far too hard into the paper. 

A few years later, nearing the end of primary school, I met  _him_. He and several other children joined us after their school closed; he used to ramble about his previous crappy excuses for teachers constantly. And I listened intently, because I found myself wanting to. He 'took me under his wing', aka enjoyed the undivided attention I provided and allowed me to stick around. He was one of the new kids, he knew the deal. They were the most interesting thing to happen to our school in several decades; they were practically the holy grails of the playground. This kid could have been friends with whoever the hell he wanted, but he chose the loser in the corner, probably to boost his public image as if I was some sort of charity case rather than an antisocial 9 year old.

I grew up with him - he was pretty much my first and only friend, as cliché as that sounds.

He invited me to his house, and vice versa. Our families joked about how we were "two peas in a pod", not realising that this meant a hell of a lot to me at the time. I felt exceptionally content around him to say the least, as though his presence was enough to force a serial killer-esque smile onto my face and give the crinkles by my eyes their own crinkles. 

He was pretty - exceedingly so. I'd decided this fairly early on. This was around the time I was just about figuring out my sexuality, and little closeted Jim was terrified. I couldn't tell anyone - they'd hate me!  _I_  hated me! He was with me when I had my first panic attack, hidden behind the locked door of the school's only disabled toilet. Although unaware of the self-hatred that was suffocating me, he stayed by my side, rubbing my back calmly through my sobs as if nothing else mattered to him.

That's when I came out to him. 

And, surprisingly, he didn't mind at all. In fact, he did the same.

I began to rely on him; he was my rock. He always right there when I needed him, and I took advantage of that. I got too close...

And then he left. Without a fucking word.

I hurled a rock into the wall, the impact leaving a small white mark on the surface. I instinctively wiped it away with my index finger, allowing it to linger for a moment.

"What did that wall ever do to you?" a voice asked as I leant back against the building.

I sighed, "The wall had it coming."

Irene sat down beside me quietly, as if she respected my desire for silence - that was the reason I was out here in the first place. After a few moments filled with only the crunching of rocks beneath obligatory school shoes, she presented me with a practically brand new box of cigarettes. It was only then that I noticed the unlit object between her fingers. I pursed my chapped lips, wincing slightly as the winter wind hit my face, "I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," she shrugged, pulling her coat tighter before continuing to offer the box. 

I pulled a stick from the box, examining it sceptically. After realising that Irene wasn't going to initiate this, and waiting for a lead that was never going to come was pointless, I stuck the poison between my teeth. She fiddled with the generic translucent blue lighter, clearly struggling to get it to work. I waited patiently, oddly in no rush to fill my lungs with any kind of potentially damaging toxins.

After a minute or so, the flame flickered to life, barely avoiding being blown out by the harsh wind. She gasped before wrapping her hand around it protectively, as though the tiny light was her only priority at the moment. I huddled over as she lit the cigarette and sucked as hard as I could. A coughing fit followed.

I spluttered uncontrollably but, thankfully, my coughs were soon joined by Irene's. We choked on the smoke quietly until our coughs subsided and became giggles, and those became laughter. Soon there were tears glistening in our tired eyes, whether that from the gases or hysterics, it was unclear. 

"That. Is. Disgusting." I stated, and Irene nodded over enthusiastically. I mean, nauseating texture and overall experience aside, it had felt weirdly good, dramatic even, despite the ever looming threat of lung related diseases. That wasn't to say I was inclined to take another drag. 

Silence descended once more.

Irene's voice cut through the awkwardness, "I heard about what happened..." I dragged the hand which wasn't currently preoccupied by a burning substance down my face slowly, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry about what? Sorry that my completely illegal, not to mention immoral, relationship was shattered by my supposedly straight-as-a-fucking-rainbow boyfriend banging a girl about half his age?"

"No," Irene began, "sorry that you're so damn gullible and believe absolutely everything you hear."

My eyebrows knitted together with confusion. 

"Jim,  _'Sherlock'_  didn't cheat on you."

I threw my head back against the wall in annoyance, the reality, and predictability, of my colossal fuck up finally dawning on me, "shit..." 

Irene remained composed as I chucked my barely-smoked cigarette against the rocks in frustration, as if she wasn't even surprised. She probably wasn't. I wasn't - at least, half of me wasn't. The other half honestly just needed to learn how to chill in situations like this instead of catapulting into fight or flight mode as soon as there was the slightest indication of a remotely anxiety-inducing situation.

I rested my arms on my knees, and my forehead on top of that, internalising my screams and allowing only the most theatrical of groans to slip from my mouth. I snapped my head up quickly. "What should I do?" I sighed before mentally adding 'and why am I such a fuck up' because I honestly was not in the mood for the generic 'oh honey, you're not a fuck up' speech we've been conditioned into replying.

"Burst into his classroom singing 'I want you back' by the Jackson 5?" Irene suggested and I entertained the possibility for a moment, "Just let him come to you."

Before I even had time to open my mouth to protest, Irene had interrupted, "I know you really like him, Jim. I just don't want you to get hurt." Her eyes bore into the side of my face as I continued to stare at the brickwork before me. She seemed genuinely concerned about my wellbeing and, for a moment, I felt... loved. 

It was nice.

~-~-~-~-~

A few weeks later, I decided that listening to Irene's advice of 'waiting' caused more pain than potentially proclaiming my undying love through a slightly off key ballad, and was about as effective as a therapist suggesting a new coping mechanism to their patient called 'breathing'. Sherlock clearly hadn't taken the hint that he was supposed to be the one to break the uncomfortable tension between us, and had opted to ignore me. I wasn't about to complain, though, even if it felt like I was being kicked in the chest whenever we locked eyes.

It was fine. This could just be his way of breaking things off, without the pain of actually having to vocalise it. 

Although tempting, I avoided making the first move, as per Irene's instructions. Instead, I began hiding in the pretty much deserted wasteland that was the school library. The only reason the room existed was too make the school look good during inspections, but it was otherwise unused bar the odd student desperately requiring some old-ass textbook about the Anglo Saxons. They even went as far as hiring a librarian, who was literally like an 84 year old alcoholic who spent her days either rereading the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy or just not bothering to turn up. I'm not even sure the school paid her. 

But it was quiet, and that was exactly what I needed.

Through the 3 weeks I spent there, I actually got to know the librarian reasonably well - enough to class her as an acquaintance. Her name was Gladys, and I'm about 97% sure she sold drugs to students as a side job. She was good company, really. She gave me some crappy relationship advice, rambled on about her "cheap but surprisingly good quality" hair curlers, and started numerous discussions about how, in a literary sense, Harry Potter had a few "pacing issues". It was all complete bullshit, but I appreciated the attempt at conversation.

Life was normal, whatever  _'normal'_  was...

And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that this was what I wanted, and that hiding away in a library with an elderly woman I knew fuck all about was a good way to spend my afternoons, I always resorted back to my original argument - this was boring. Although hesitant to admit it, I missed Sherlock. I missed him a hell of a lot.

It was ridiculous; I still saw him more or less every day. It just wasn't the same. He barely even acknowledged my presence, like a little kid having a tantrum. By this point, repeatedly stabbing me in the scrotum would be genuinely preferable to the silent treatment. 

I took my usual seat to the side of Gladys' desk and pulled out a book I had no intention of reading. I usually just watched her, admittedly in the creepiest way possible, waiting for something,  _anything_ , to happen. Honestly, by this point I was so desperate for entertainment that a pigeon flying past the window would be enough to momentarily satisfy my boredom. 

Flicking through the already yellowing pages, my eyes scanned over the words, focusing intently on the ever-growing blob of ink as the letters began to overlap, merging into the only mess that could be fixed with a blink. And whilst I let the blackness envelop the pages, mine and Sherlock's collectively-concocted cock-up continued to grow. Eventually, far sooner than I'd like to admit, I found myself rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand, exhaling deeply in the process and completely forgetting that I was not, in fact, alone in this room. 

Gladys gazed in my general direction, eyeing me curiously. After a moment of uncomfortable eye contact, she returned to search through her desk. She passed me a letter silently.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, but said nothing, taking the envelope from her unnaturally wrinkly hands. It was some sort of entertainment at least.

It was addressed to me, which, considering the fact the librarian had literally just given it to me, wasn't a completely surprising detail. But it did bring up another question - a question besides the generic 'why the fuck was I just given a letter?';  _why was Gladys the one to give it to me?_

As if she'd read my mind, the woman spoke up, "He was very insistent that I was the one to give it to you." Her voice, croaky and harsh, wasn't entirely dissimilar to that of a 90 year old man who'd been smoking since his teens to make himself look cool, but had developed a rather severe addiction. I simply nodded in response, digging my finger under the paper like a kid opening their christmas presents (although less excited and putting considerably less effort into the action). I pulled the letter out, noting the school's watermark behind the text. It appeared to be genuine, worthy of prime placement in the recycling. I sighed.

It was only when I read the contents that I realised it was actually just a note from Sherlock. 

In short, without all the bullshit he'd added to ensure the school system would approve and print it out for him, because lord knows he didn't own something as trivial as a bloody printer, he was basically asking me to go to his room at the end of the day. The thought of Sherlock slaving away at the keyboard searching for a more appropriate term than 'classroom and chill' was enough to secure a small smile on my otherwise miserable face. 

"When did you get this?" I asked, my eyes remaining firmly on the paper. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gladys shrugging, "Some time last week?" 

You know those situations where there's no other feasible response than "you had one job"? A prime example of this would be my failed attempt at remaining in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes for longer than 5 minutes. This situation, however, may have taken top of the leaderboard, and quite deservingly so; Gladys literally had one. fucking. job.

I think it's needless to say that I practically sprinted to Sherlock at the end of the day, the desperation to get to his classroom allowing me to dodge pupils like Lara Croft in those 'quick time events' - except about 20x less attractive, because she miraculously managed to look like a fucking goddess and avoided stalagmites as though she was walking a runway, whilst I could already feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. 

With the opening note of 'Can You Feel The Love Tonight' ringing in my ears, I flung the door open with far too much force and followed suit. My irregular breathing, which bore an uncanny resemblance to that of an asthmatic after running a marathon, echoed around the empty room, bouncing off the cabinets and windows as if searching for the man in question. Sherlock wasn't here, which was just disappointing more than anything. Regardless of his lack of presence, I wandered around the room, allowing my index finger to trail along the tabletops. The wood, or whatever the material actually was - most likely some crappy, half-assed combination of plastics, was cold against my skin. I began to tap out the tune to the song that had been rattling around in my brain for the past few days. It was Bach, I think. Or Beethoven? The notes were pattering against the surface like morse code, which, I suppose, wasn't far off. They both sent messages in one form or another.

Sherlock's desk was covered in paper, sheets flowing from their original home, a cloudy coloured folder, like water from a fountain. The words - there were far too many for me to bother even attempting to read them - became tiny and insignificant, like the air pockets formed in the foam of waterfalls. The bubbles of breath danced on the pages, but remained stationary the whole time. This hallucinogenic-esque cogitation could either be down to my self-diagnosed insomnia or Irene's highly questionable cigarettes. I blamed the latter. 

"Jim?"

"Sherlock!" I whipped around to face the speaker, inevitably dragging half the sheets with me, cursing under my breath as they toppled to the floor, because apparently it was physically impossible for me to perform any act without it turning into a disaster within a matter of minutes. Before I knew it, Sherlock was by my side, scooping the papers back into their temporary confinement. He was treating it as though it was a race. His hands began to tremble slightly. I didn't mention it.

"I got your letter," I told him, although I'm sure he was already aware.

"Evidently," he mumbled. 

I smiled at him, because yes, my comment absolutely deserved that sarcastic-ass murmur. And then he smiled back at me, and my heart did that weird fluttery thing. Because this was the first interaction we'd had for just under a month, and through the use of seven words we'd pretty much summed up our entire relationship.

And just like that, Sherlock was back in my life again.

And that made me far happier than it probably should have.

 


	15. Chapter 15

_"So you can drag me through hell,_   
_if it meant I could hold your hand."_

_\- Follow You_   
_Bring Me The Horizon_

"Make yourself at home," Sherlock's keys landed unceremoniously on the coffee table, amongst the discarded newspapers and abandoned mugs, as he used his now free hand to direct me towards his sofa. I followed his instructions obediently as he disappeared round the corner, tucking my feet underneath me and relaxing into the cushions.

The flat was just as messy as ever, but I decided that was what I liked about it. More dust had settled on the ornaments around the room, enough for their neglect to be visible. A violin was balanced against the opposite arm of the settee. I'd never noticed it before. From someone else's perspective, someone stood further away, the instrument was just an instrument. It made music. That was it. But from here, I could pick up on the tiny little details. Like how the neck had been chipped, how the strings were worn, how the chin rest was collecting minuscule particles.

The fragments in the air were storytellers. They could describe both the object and the owner instantaneously. But the tales they told were always sob stories. They always ended in negligence, or ignorance, or a deadly cacophony of the two.

The overenthusiastic bubbling of the kettle was a welcome distraction to my in-depth analysis of dead skin.

It was both alarming and impressive how much coffee one man could consume in the space of a few hours. It had only been an hour or so since his last cup, and that was just before he picked me up, brandishing a store-bought coffee worthy of at least 100 hipster points. But, as Sherlock was far too quick to inform me, the drink merely came into his possession due to the incredibly convenient location of the non-descript retailer, and nothing to do with the fact that he may or may not have gone out of his way to purchase this beverage, but  _goddamnit_ , Costa do good coffees, and I wasn't exactly in a position to judge his excessive consumption of caffeine.

It took Sherlock and I far too long to get to the point where we'd established  _where_  he was going to pick me up, let alone  _when_. We'd meet at some point on Saturday; deciding that was the easy part. The specifics of the so-called 'date' were harder to arrange. We were treating it like a military operation, vocalising our thoughts through the phone as though they were walkie-talkies. I mean, I wouldn't have been  _entirely_  opposed to the idea of Sherlock arriving in an army uniform.

Convincing my mother I actually had friends to spend the weekend with for once was damn near impossible.

I told her Friday night, as she was curled up on the sofa, only half-watching some kind of crappy talent contest. Taking a seat next to her, I struggled to make my movements look casual. I could feel her watching me out the corner of her eyes as I feigned interest in the woman screeching - sorry, singing - on the telly.

To say this was a usual occurrence in our household would be lying; this never happened. In fact, before now there was more chance of every pig on the planet simultaneously sprouting wings and migrating to Antartica than there was my mum and I spending an evening together. Most stories depicted mother and child relationships to be the strongest bond in a family, but our relationship, or lack thereof, was enough to completely annihilate that stereotype.

As I felt the woman's attention drift back to the self-proclaimed 'talent' show, I stole a glance at her. In the darkness, only the flickering glow from the television illuminated her features. The iridescent lights danced off her cheeks and glinted off her weary eyes. Both her eyelashes and eyelids, not quite drooping but certainly lacking enthusiasm, cast a shadow over the bags under her eyes, stopping just at the tip of her ski-slope nose. I paused to contemplate how much of my own face resembled my mother's, and how much my dad's, because that had never bothered me previously.

"You must have gotten that from your father," the woman in question smiled softly, directing my attention the hands in my lap. My fingers were tapping against my thigh subconsciously, playing along to a silent song, "used to drive me mad."

She looked down as a wave of sentimentality seemed to wash over her.

I spoke quietly, my words barely audible over the audience's cheers, "Did you love dad?"

"'Course, I did," I watched silently as she fiddled with the single ring on her left hand, where her fourth finger joined with her knuckle. I hadn't previously noticed it. My inquiry had been ridiculous; of course she loved him or, at least, wanted to believe she did, "still do."

That statement always confused me. How could you continue to love someone after they were dead? You only spend a handful of their days with them, and only witness a small amount of their most memorable moments. You physically don't have enough time to learn absolutely everything about that individual, like the exact shade of the single strand of hair that constantly falls in front of their right eye when they get passionate about something, or how long their breathing contorts for just prior to falling asleep. Perhaps you only get to be there when their laughter comes out in splutters; the kind of laughter that stains faces red and makes ribs physically ache under the weight of the pure, unadulterated joy. Maybe you only observe happy moments. You may never see them at their most vulnerable, when the ugly, unapologetic tears trickle from faucet-like eyes and leave salty tracks on their flushed cheeks. I just didn't understand how you could possibly love something you hadn't learned about someone.

Turning away, I carefully constructed my next question.

"How did you know?"

I was asking for a lot, I knew that, but I  _needed_  an answer. I needed something I could trust.

The eerie silence between us was made more pronounced by the eruption of noise coming from the TV. Various hunks of muscle had bounded onto the stage, and the topless men were using their hard-earned physique to give the predominantly female demographic something to vote for. I felt like I really connected with the middle-aged 'mommas' as I struggled to tear my eyes away from the screen.

"Because," my mother began, "I could watch things like this and appreciate the men's talent before acknowledging their abs."

I smiled at that, wide and genuine, before snuggling into the cushions, closer to my mum, and continuing to admire the 'performer's skills'. Let's say it was certainly an... interesting family bonding exercise.

It was only about 10 minutes later that I finally decided to grow some balls and actually tell my mum what the fuck I was going to be doing in less than 24 hours time, because it was, for some unspoken reason, pretty damn vital that the woman who pushed me out of her key orifice knew where her god-awful son was at all times, although I doubt she'd send out a search party if I happened to vanish off the face of the earth. I missed a few  _minor_  details here and there; the fact that this 'friend' was legally bound to teach me chemistry, and that our relationship had breached the point of no return in terms of it being platonic.

She watched me carefully, her face indicating bewilderment, and I was convinced she was seconds away from calling bullshit.

"Is this... friend," she trailed off before trying again, "are they your girlfriend?"  _Girlfriend?!_  Had I seriously not come out to my own mother yet? I was a shoo-in for the 'World's Worst Son' at this rate.

The words formed in my mouth; I was going to tell her. I'd told countless people before - I wasn't exactly embarrassed. But as I started to ease the sentence closer and closer to the tip of my tongue, the words stuck together and formed a mound, lodging themselves in the back of my throat.

The truth was stuck to the walls of my mouth like insects on a flycatcher, so I started swatting at wasps, and the lies tumbled out.

"No, nothing like that," I dismissed, and for some reason, these words made me feel like a fraud. I followed this up with a noncommittal shrug and, "girls aren't really my area." There. Not complete bollocks anymore.

"What about Irene; she seemed nice."

"She's just a friend."

My mum offered me a small smile as if to convey; 'whatever you say sweetie', and returned her attention to her program.

And then my own attention was corrupted by a clean, dainty mug forcing its way in front of my face. The mug was white, with a thin golden strip encircling the rim. There was a small illustration of the United Kingdom on the front, only serving to enhance the stereotypical British-ness of the cup. It was far too fancy for Sherlock. His cupboards were a jumble of hazardous chemicals and other health and safety nightmares; I wouldn't be surprised if he hid thumbs in a pickle jar. This object wouldn't look out of place in Buckingham Palace. They were polar opposites.

Shifting to sit cross-legged, I pulled the sleeves of my charcoal, oversized jumper; the kind that deserved a position on a Tumblr blog, over my hands and took the tea from Sherlock gratefully. He knew just how I liked it - white, two sugars - which I feel is a necessity for relationships. No matter how had he tried, he couldn't convert me to the coffee cult.

A few weeks ago, I had been perched on top of his impossibly scratched table. Sherlock had been rushing around behind my back, my lack of visuals enhancing my other senses. I remember the nose-prickling scent of the beverage, the smile-inducing humming from my teacher, and the rough feeling where chunks were missing from the wood beneath me. Holmes had slotted himself between my legs with a mug in hand. He smiled widely, like a little kid showing their parent their crappy yet alluring artwork. It was his way of initiating my first, and unsurprisingly last, coffee-tasting session. I tentatively took a sip...

He kissed every inch of my face that had instinctively scrunched up.

Now, I was blowing cool air over the surface of my drink. I was aware I probably looked ridiculously childish, with my hands covered by baggy fabric, sitting like a little kid in a school assembly. All of this presumably helped to start our conversation off with a rather handy, "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

I took a small sip from my drink, silently savouring the taste as it travelled down my throat, before opting to answer genuinely, "The Queen of England."

This sent Sherlock into a fit of hysterics. His laughter erupted into the newly silent flat, as if it was sending his smile on a mission to envelop both his entire face and the building in the process.

"I can list several reasons why that wouldn't work," he muttered between bursts of giggles. His baby blue eyes, glazed over with pure bliss, met my own.

"Is it because I'm Irish?" I accused, fully prepared to defend what would be my obviously unparalleled position as monarch, "It is, isn't it? Not only is that incredibly problematic, but insulting to the entirety of the Republic of Ireland."

Sherlock shook his head lightly through new bouts of laughter. I was determined not to reciprocate his actions; he'd just insulted my home country. Taking a patriotic swig of my tea, I continued to protest.

Fending down the smile bubbling in my throat, I added, "Do you doubt my insatiable desire to single-handedly symbolise everything and anything Britain has ever stood for?"

"Jim-"

"I could quite easily stand on a balcony and wave for five minutes - and honey, I look fucking  _great_  in a crown."

"You're not even a woman, Jim!" Holmes objected.

I held my free hand to my heart in mock offence, widening both my mouth and my eyes in doing so, "You didn't even ask for my pronouns-"

And then my Tumblr-typical speech was cut off by Sherlock's lips on my own, and any other arguments supporting my undoubtedly remarkable role as Queen dissipated into the air.

~-~-~-~-~

Being a guest had many benefits. For one, I didn't necessarily have to move from my position on the couch, neither was I required to 'pull my own weight'. Despite this, I still got off my ass and helped prepare our 5-star worthy spaghetti bolognese - although I question whether putting ready-made food into a microwave constituted as labour.

It was usually an implicit rule that guests were allowed to use the facilities, and I'd decided that I was pretty much entitled to a shower. Needless to say, I took Sherlock up on his unspoken offer, gliding into the bathroom coolly. But I wasn't calm. Sherlock was just next door - calm,  _clothed_  - and my now naked body was only hidden by a series of paper-thin walls.

Swallowing down the nerves that had somehow crawled to the surface, I slipped under the almost scalding spray. The room filled with thick, condensed steam, and all I could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock and his curls and his lips and his hands and the way that the water dancing down my thighs felt like his fingertips. It was like every fibre of his fucking being had been injected into each of my senses, and through the misty heat of the shower, all I could see was Sherlock.

Despite the fact that the man currently corrupting all logical thoughts was mere metres away, my brain seemed to paint him differently - his skin slightly too pale, his eyes too pure a blue. My mind had faded into a foggy, incomprehensible mess. Everything was hazy, clouded with mist.

A strange heat pooled in my stomach - not arousal, as such, more a giddy excitement - because Sherlock was mine, regardless of how damn possessive that sounded.

And to say I was fucked would be an understatement.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in only my sweater and boxers, Sherlock was lying out on the sofa. He had his hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, as though praying. But this was Sherlock, and I highly doubted he believed in any variation of higher power.

He looked peaceful, thoughtful. My heart fluttered. 

It was dark - it  _always_  seemed to be dark - and Sherlock's pale skin was dulled. I tried not to concentrate on the empty connotations by mind had conceived as I edged closer, and instead focused on the way his chest rose and fell in time with the predetermined rhythm of Sherlock's breathing. A dim lamp flickered in the corner, sending shadows cascading up the walls. Just past the window, the night had stolen the colours of the day, leaving inky darkness.

I tiptoed closer.

Once I was close enough, I leant over Holmes's resting body and ghosted my lips across his. He cracked a single eye open, a smirk adorning his mouth. Soon, I was straddling him, my kisses dancing over his skin.  _Cheeks. Kiss. Jaw. Kiss. Neck. Kiss._

_Kiss Kiss Kiss..._

"Tell me about yourself," Sherlock instructed, albeit at the most inconvenient time.

I sighed against his neck, "There's not much to tell," - nothing unique anyway. My dad was 6 feet under, I had a practically non-existent relationship with my mum, and my best friend had vanished off the face of the earth; these things had happened before. History was just repeating itself like a broken record. I wasn't special. I didn't deserve sympathy. These things just happened. Sure, they were shitty, because the world just isn't fair sometimes, but they happened. 

My head was swimming in thoughts and all I wanted was to distract myself with Sherlock's scent, _and his lips, and his skin, and..._

His hands, holding my hips in a way that was both calm and controlling, seemed to ground me. Holmes became my focal point once again, and this was surprising to a grand total of no one.

"Tell me about your childhood."

I internally groaned; he really was determined to make me talk.

Even after I informed him that there was really nothing interesting to tell, Sherlock pressed further. His eyes were warm and inviting, but there was something darker hidden just beneath the surface. Something you'd imagine to see on a figure of high authority, or during an interrogation. He was scrutinising my every word. 

So I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him about my generic primary school experience, complained about the bitchy lunch ladies and briefly mentioned how I only ever had one friend. He seemed to latch onto that last part, asking for me to practically dissect my relationship with this boy. He seemed... jealous? No, it wasn't that. His eyes grew harder and his face appeared to stiffen. He didn't nod at the right moments like he usually did, just sat and listened.

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked once I'd finished, voice deep, expression unreadable. It felt like an investigation. It felt different. It felt wrong.

I didn't waste much time counteracting his question with one of my own, "Can we talk about this another day?" Resting my head on his chest, I could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat, "I'm tired."

He nodded, but his actions seemed reluctant. 

As we relocated ourselves to the bedroom, I decided my analysis was just down to me being tired. I was just overthinking things again - everything was fine. The kisses Sherlock placed on my lips proved that. He tasted like coffee beans and cigarette smoke. It was nice.

Regardless, I couldn't shake the ever looming feeling that something was wrong.

We fell asleep that night cuddled together, various limbs intertwined. It was comfortable in his embrace, distracting. As I successfully managed to divert my attention to the warmth of Sherlock's body wrapped around my own, only one thought graced my mind with its presence:

I could get used to this.

 


	16. Chapter 16

_"I'm just some dumb kid_    
 _trying to kid myself_  
 _that I got my shit together"_

_\- LOST BOY_   
_Troye Sivan_

The day started relatively normally, with the sun creeping through crappy nylon curtain, sneaking up the covers silently. Groaning in disapproval of the daylight, I buried my head back under the sheets like an animal refusing to wake from hibernation.

It was Saturday - no school, no responsibilities - and I had minimal intentions of leaving the bed crease I'd created for myself. The sheets were wrapped around me like a cocoon. My eyes, heavy with sleep, involuntarily shut on themselves as a silent yawn escaped my mouth.

I allowed my body to go limp as my consciousness ebbed away once again. It was comfy beneath the pale covers, and the warmth they emitted drowned my overactive senses.

Or, at least, they began to...

A quiet crunching of bedsheets, ominously similar to the rustling of leaves, was enough to shock me awake, my body becoming stiff with the initial panic before I realised where I was, and that, contrary to my prior assumption, a mass murderer had not miraculously climbed through my window at 8am without being caught, planning to tear me limb from limb and sell my vital organs on the black market.

Squinting due to the blindness-inducing light pouring through the window, I sat up, allowing my eyes time to adjust. Although my eyesight was still slightly fuzzy, I spotted Sherlock perched on the end of the bed. He turned to face me with a blurry smile, which I found impossible not the imitate. His smile clung to his lips like cupcake crumbs and sweetened the very air in my lungs; especially with the way the sunlight stained the left side of his face with a pale, white streak, enhancing his angelic appearance.

"Morning."

"Mornin'," I replied, my accent thick with sleep. He leant over to my end of the bed and kissed my nose lightly, his scent lingering.

"I should get you home soon," he informed me as I dragged myself out from under the duvet, "How are you feeling?"

I haphazardly chose a shirt from the floor and put it on to retain some warmth, not bothering to do the buttons up, before ruffling my hair to make it look at least slightly acceptable. It was Sherlock's shirt - it smelt like him - but he didn't seem to mind, smirking as he beckoned me over to him.

"'lright," I shrugged, slotting myself between his legs. Sherlock placed his hands on my hips, gently pulling me closer to him. The sleeves of his shirt covered my hands as I cupped his face.

"Good," he decided, pulling me a tad closer before kissing me softly. My stomach filled with a feeling similar to that seeping into kids trying to sleep on Christmas Eve. It was enough to fill my tummy with butterflies, or a sensation very similar, at least.

I started playing with his hands, a small grin plastered on my face. I kissed each of his fingers lightly, barely even brushing my lips against his skin before moving onto the next finger. He smiled, his expression once again infectious.

"I like you," I announced, dropping our still-joined hands to my side.

"I like you too," Sherlock replied, a hint of scepticism in his voice - not as though he was questioning the truth of his words, but like he didn't understand the use of such a flimsy adjective as 'like'.

Another kiss.

The birds sang like overenthusiastic talent contest auditionees as I whispered, "Do I have to go?"

Sherlock nodded sadly, "But not yet."

With that, he tackled me to the bed, pinning me down with his hips against my own. I didn't have time to acknowledge his impressive feat before his lips were encouraging an embarrassingly needy moan from my throat.

We kissed. It was sloppy and sleepy and far from perfect - teeth clashing and too much tongue - but it tasted and felt and smelt like Sherlock, and I'm pretty sure it inflicted the same responses as heroin. I suppose both shared similar attributes. Both were bad for you. Both were illegal. Both were somewhat concerningly addictive.

And then we were pulling apart and my breaths were coming out as pants.

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, beautifully so, and his lips were slick with spit. He was staring down at me with wide eyes. Expression unreadable, my mind jumped to bizarre, improbable conclusions. I'd probably unknowingly fucked something up or done something wrong, and Holmes was now evaluating all possible exits, and how did gravity work again, and what was the probability of breaking a limb by jumping out the window, it couldn't have been that high, surely, he could afford to take his chances, I mean, he knew more than me, he was a physics teacher, but -

His tongue darted out to assault his parted lips, and I realised he was, in actuality, looking at my bare chest. He was looking at my far from runway-worthy squishy tummy, the slowly fading childhood scar just below my belly-button, the various splotches of dry skin that littered my front, the moles freckling my torso, the acne assaulting my chest and that one bruise on my hip from walking into a radiator. Yet, despite these odd markings and weird contusions, Sherlock was looking at my body as though it was the first time he'd seen a sunset.

He trailed his index finger from my throat to the waistband of my boxers, as though claiming his possession. I shivered - it tickled.

Lips attacked my neck, chapped flesh causing my hairs to stand on edge. Sherlock's mouth was against my throat. His hot breath danced against my Adam's apple, and I inhaled sharply, unable to comprehend the sudden surge of emotion racing through my veins.

Then, his lips were latching to the soft, bare patch of skin beneath my left ear, nipping and kissing the area sequentially. My hand, palm up, fingers splayed, grazed helplessly against the pillows, powerless to reciprocate the pleasure. It was selfish, sure, but the way Sherlock's hands were expertly kneading my thighs erased all self-deprecating thoughts from my brain, if only for just a moment.

His mouth reclaimed its rightful position on mine and it felt like he never left. It was soft and toothpaste-tasting, but it was the very definition of comforting. Could a kiss be comforting?

"You taste like mint," I mentioned casually.

"Mmm," Sherlock pressed his lips against the space between my eyes lightly, and the feeling stayed. I smiled, "you taste like you need a coffee."

He pulled away quickly, leaving me to miss the intimacy of it all.

"Speaking of which," he began, jumping off the bed, "I need to go and get some milk."

I groaned, covering my face with my arm, partially due to the aforementioned task but largely down to the fact that Sherlock had been blocking out the sun before he rather rudely moved.

"Don't worry princess," Sherlock smirked, his voice practically dripping with saccharine, "you can stay here. I'll be ten minutes."

I sighed dramatically, praying my face wasn't as hot as it felt, before proclaiming sardonically, "Oh, what would I do without my prince."

And that question got me thinking; what would I do without Sherlock. After some consideration, I came to a conclusion. The answer was simple really - I'd have tea without milk.

~-~-~-~-~

The toaster was concerningly clean, so much so that I could see my reflection. This wouldn't have been particularly notable if it wasn't for the hot, flushed cheeks glaring back at me. My hair was a mess, strands sticking up in seemingly undetermined directions, like signs at a crossroad, all pointing towards the disaster that was my bed head.

Most noticeable, though, was the pale purple bruise on my neck, marking where Holmes had claimed me as his own. I gathered that I should have been annoyed right now. I should have been cursing Sherlock under my breath for giving me a love bite so clear and visible and... there, because surely covering his work up should have been the most important task at that moment. But I had no intention of hiding it away under layers of foundation or scarfs; it was beautiful.

Sherlock's lips had been the brushes, his kisses the paint, and he'd created a masterpiece on my skin.

Careful fingers grazed the spot just below my left ear, the usually unnoticeable area where stubble started, and acne avoided, and Sherlock cherished. The skin tingled.

It looked like a tiny vampire kiss, and I couldn't help but smile at the idea of my teacher with fangs. I blushed down at the counter, the weight of my adoration for Mr Holmes finally sinking in. In brief, I was colossally fucked.

I waited patiently for my bread to toast, revelling in the domesticity of it all. It was such a simple task, but a task that maybe I'd develop later. Maybe one day I'd be making breakfast in bed for Sherlock. I'd make toast, cut into crappy, half-assed heart shapes, and tea for two, already made the way he likes it, and I'd wake him up with a kiss to his temple, and his eyes would flutter open, just like in the movies, and they'd be warm with affection, and then we'd kiss and kiss and kiss and the bread would lie untouched and the tea would go cold and my hard work would be for nothing, but instead of 'sorry', we'd kiss.

And kiss.

And kiss.

And the kisses wouldn't stay on lips, they'd roam our bodies just like hands - exploring necks and chests and thighs and any expanse of skin available to be subjected to feverish mouths. Our movements would be anything but graceful, with desperate palms gripping fragile ribs hard enough to bruise, but it wouldn't matter because we'd be closer.

Closer.

So much closer and warmer and softer - because skin is so, so delicate, and bones can easily be shattered, and sparing a single thought for the neglected elegance the situation should entail would be out of the question. And God, I longed to be closer to Sherlock.

And suddenly the flat felt empty.

The bread popped up from the toaster. Almost mechanically, I pulled it onto a plate, ignoring the burning in my fingers, and set about buttering it. I wondered how Sherlock liked his toast, or whether he preferred cereal. Maybe he was more of a fruit person.

My mind created a delusion I could drown myself in, set in a future 5 years from now. I would have finished school for good, grades and qualifications irrelevant in my fantasy, and Sherlock and I would still be together. We'd be able to go places and hold hands and be disgustingly cute without the ever growing fear of getting caught. We'd move far, far away from here - as far as we could get.

Surrounded by boxes, we'd be in the kitchen - our kitchen - celebrating our first day in our new home. We'd be making pancakes for breakfast in an attempt to christen this place as our own.

They say home is where the heart is, but surely that means my home is in my skin. My body is a temple, or something like that, which made me the God it was designed for by default. But if my form was so intricately made and fine tuned, why did I hate it so much? Maybe that was the point. I'd latched onto Sherlock because he ignored my blatant self-hatred and made me feel cherished and valued and... loved. I'd entrusted my vital organ with my teacher, therefore making Sherlock those ever-craved four walls, regardless of whether he opted to give me the spare key or not.

Sherlock would be doing most of the work because we would both be well aware of how inedible my cooking was, and I'd stand behind him, arms wrapped around his slender frame. He'd overturn the pancakes with a spatula, neither of us trusting him to perform a successful flip using only the pan. It would be nice - simple - inhaling his natural scent as though it was all I'd ever known.

Once cooked, we'd sit to divulge in our creations. Sherlock would delicately apply sugar and lemon as though composing an art piece, whilst I'd haphazardly lather on the chocolate spread.

And we'd sit. And we'd eat. And our feet would nudge one another under the table. And it would be wonderful and civilised and peaceful, more or less the polar opposite to our relationship now.

Just like that, back into the empty space we labelled reality, I rid myself of the depersonalisation creeping up my spine and instead replaced it with hyper-awareness of the floor beneath my feet, just a bit too cold to be comfortable for bare feet. It was grounding, helpful for those little moments where the room began to vanish and my mind felt opiated and hazy. These junctures were usually elicited from my time with Sherlock; moments where my body felt just that little too heavy, and the usual preoccupied buzzing in my mind faded into mindless, unhelpful humming.

I shoved the toast into my mouth.

I wasn't particularly big on codependency, nor was I a giant, burning pillar advocating independence. I was very much my own person, with my own thoughts, and feelings, and mannerisms. Antithetical to popular belief, or, rather, my mother's belief, I could quite easily get by by myself - I roughly knew my way around a washing machine, and not all of the toast I made came out burnt, thank you very much.

This slice, however, was one of the unlucky ones.

My phone glared at me from Sherlock's desk, vibrating violently like a little kid demanding attention. I groaned, plodding over to the device to give it the engrossment it so desired - what can I say, I might as well have been crowned Mother Of The Year right there and then. I deliberated for a moment to decide if I could actually be bothered with social interaction today - past the basics I'd shared with Sherlock this morning - before picking up the call out of common courtesy, but still not particularly caring enough to check the caller ID.

"Hello?" I asked, purely out of habit.

"Hi, Jim," My mum spoke softly, pausing between her words, and it took me aback momentarily. She was the last person I was expecting to be on the other end of the phone; she never called unless it was an emergency. I wasn't even sure she was aware of her phone's existence. Still, despite this odd, uncharacteristic turn of events, there was no urgency in her voice. In fact, she sounded tired, this accentuating the very distinct interval in her sentence. We both knew that, in all those idealised screenplays we'd been subjected to, my name was the last thing she was supposed to refer to me as. She was supposed to call me sweetie, or honey, or another sickening nickname - anything but Jim.

In a perfect universe, my mother and I would have been closer, but, as it frequently became increasingly clear to me, this wasn't some high school based, low budget teen movie on Disney channel - the ones where the lead character is introduced with a monologue in which they clarify, despite the audience's clear lack of interest, that they're 'not like other girls'. This, unfortunately, was real life. This was us, my mum and I, and we were so very far from perfect, and so very far from ideal, and the floor beneath my bare feet was still far too cold.

"Are you having a good time?" She asked, and her usually cheery tone was contaminated with exhaustion.

I answered genuinely, and a tad guiltily, "Yeah."

There was a brief beat of, what felt like, elongated silence, which, in actuality, probably only span out to less than a second. Regardless, it was still enough time for a yawn to seep through the speaker. I took the role of the 'dominant male' in the situation and asked her a question of my own; "Are you okay?" It was simple, caring, but I somehow made the words sound like an accusation. Taking a dejected bite from my blackened bread, I waited for a response.

My eyes drifted back down to the mess on the table - Sherlock's mess. It was paperwork, so much goddamn paperwork, and I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't a teacher. I was convinced I was going to have to play maid at some point. I sighed dramatically, rolling my eyes even though no one was there to witness it.

It felt inappropriate that I was on the phone at a time like this, in a place like this, during the most simple yet 'married couple'-esque of moments. Ridiculous as it seemed, it felt as though I was giving my mum a glimpse of our secret. It felt equal parts wrong, strange, but also a tiny bit  _thrilling_. I cursed myself for being excited by this. It was my mother on the end of the phone, for god sake. There was a very real chance that she could find out. 

_Oh god, she could find out._

"Yeah, yeah. 'M fine," her melancholic tone lacked inflexion or rhythm as she brushed the question off - a sure fire sign that she was, in fact, not fine, "What time will you be home?"

"Soon," I answered, crumbs spraying as I did so. It felt like a promise.

Our conversation was brief, as many of them were, but something felt off as I put the phone down after a series of rushed goodbyes. I dismissed the idea quickly, as I'd become far too accustomed to doing with anything remotely upsetting nowadays, and took to refocusing on the tingle of the slowly-forming bruise on my neck.

A smile formed in quite the same manner. 

My mum wouldn't know. She couldn't - there was no possible way. _We were fine._

And, you know, it was getting easier and easier for me to convince myself that that was the case.

It was as though a switch had been flipped. In my half-dressed madness, I waltzed around the flat, Sherlock's shirt flailing behind me like a princess's gown. I desperately wanted to rip open the blinds, to push the windows out as far as they could go and sing with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, because I may not have been addicted to cigarettes or caffeine, unlike many others my age, but I was addicted to Sherlock, and that knowledge was enough to fill me with an insatiable desire to invite all the sunshine and wildlife into this room to harmonize with me.

I stopped, taking a moment to breathe and refocus after the rollercoaster my mind had sent me on. 

As I'd already made the executive decision to tidy up for him, like the good domestic goddess I was, I made my way back to the desk. Picking pieces at random, I started forming a makeshift pile, paying little to no attention to the details that lay on them. For all I knew, they could be taxes, or lesson plans, or... results? Could my name be amid the mass? 

You know, as much as I claimed to hate school with an undying, fiery passion that culminated in the very essence of my being, I still cared far too much about my grades. They were just letters, codes designed purely to strike fear into pupils and use this mode of control to manipulate us into model students, but we'd been brainwashed into associating these characters with success. I'd been standardised to fear failure. It was fine though, I could comply - demolishing my mental health for the sake of an 'A'. And that very letter could be within the wave of papers before me.

That was when I found myself focusing slightly, and then a lot, and then suddenly these pieces of paper were the only interesting things in the room.

Because my name wasn't in the stack...

But  _his_  was.

_Sebastian Moran._

I hadn't seen that name in months, years even, despite it being engraved into my subconscious. Sebastian, or Seb, rather, was the reason I'd developed the mantra I have now; don't make friends, don't fall in love, avoid getting hurt. He was the reason I'd build all these barriers around myself, because he'd completely obliterated the last ones. He was the one that held me as I fell apart in the school's disabled toilet. He was the bastard that destroyed me in the most beautiful way possible. 

His name was imprinted onto every sheet, like he was an enigma waiting to be solved. His face, black and white, was paper-clipped to one of the pages like an afterthought. The image itself didn't do justice to him - it didn't show his smile, his usual happiness being replaced with a neutral, somewhat forced expression. 

My heart began thumping wildly in my chest like a beast trying to escape captivity. 

The pages were spread before me, each appearing as though it wouldn't be out of place in some CSI shit. Each detail begged a question;  _why did Sherlock have these?_  Was he... stalking him? 

A large proportion of me was begging me not to read it; to walk away and leave what I didn't know the gnaw away at my brain until it eventually sent me insane, because that would be better than outright damaging whatever sanity I had left, right? What I didn't know was less likely to hurt me. 

Despite the words merging together like a demonic amalgamation taunting me, another image stood out. It was displaying a car crash, the kind that left no survivors. The picture was annotated in Sherlock's handwriting, his comments detailing the angle of the collision, how it couldn't have been an accident, the passengers, the blood. 

I almost doubled over in fear, an unfamiliar sickness rising in my throat. 

I wasn't stupid. I could put two and two together. 

He was dead. 

And then the feeling of nausea contorted into genuine bile crawling up from my stomach. I swallowed the acidic taste, barely stopping to wince at the flavour. My head was spinning, my heartbeat was irregular, my pulse was echoing in my ear, but I barely paused to acknowledge it. 

Sebastian was dead. 

My legs threatened to give out. 

He was fucking dead. 

...and then the door jolted open. Sherlock's cheery tone echoed through the eerie flat, "They didn't have any semi-skimmed milk left so I had to get full fat-"


	17. Chapter 17

_"My love for you was bulletproof_   
_but you're the one who shot me"_

_\- Bulletproof Love_   
_Pierce the Veil_

"Shit."

The air was heavy, tight, every atom pausing to watch the spectacle taking place before them. Silence, thick and imposing, lapped at our feet, seeping in from every crevice. Despite everything; despite the hurt, despite the lies, all I wanted in that moment was Sherlock's arms around me - the warmth they provided had always been associated with safety, and the thought that that might no longer be the case isolated me more than ever.

My throat tightened, restricting my speech and replacing adjectives with pure black bile - the type of bile that tore at your flesh, mutating into a beast that harboured in your lungs and suffocated you from the inside.

And I started to laugh. 

It was hollow, uncontrollable. Single tears formed and fell like bullets in a war zone. My sides ached, but my chest was void of feeling, a sensation I'd become far too accustomed with.

"Why didn't you tell me," I spoke aloud, the betrayal and melancholic connotations of the words lingering on my tongue. I swallowed them dry, like pills.

He was silent.

My heart didn't sink, it plummeted. My whole body felt numb, as if someone had just injected me with a deadly poison - a poison that had been killing me slowly, bit by bit, and I hadn't noticed until now.

And so I simply repeated the question - insistent on indulging my fears. He was hiding something, he  _had_  to be. Everything was panning out far too much like a detective novel for everything to be purely coincidental, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't important," his voice was the epitome of nonchalant.

I was choking, suffocating slowly; endlessly sinking deeper and deeper into the bottomless abyss of my confusion - _how wasn't this important?_

Picking at a scratch in the table before me absentmindedly, I waited, patient despite myself, for an explanation. The poison had already reached my lungs, limiting their intake; it was fear, I'd concluded.

It was selfish, really, that I was stood here - alive yet having a so-called 'quarter-life crisis' - feeling as though the world was crashing down around me, whilst Sebastian was already buried beneath the rubble; I had the audacity to feel victimised. 

It wasn't even like I was surprised that everything had fallen to shit. This had been bound to happen from the very start, from the first word, the first line; Sherlock was going to destroy me. And yet I allowed it to happen, because I suppose there was some dark, sadistic part of my being that craved misery through means of self-destruction. My mind would forever plead the fifth whilst I bathed in desolate melancholia. I would never categorise myself as the villain.

"Did he have a funeral?"

"Does it matter?"

And, after brief internal elucidation, I supposed it didn't. Up until now, I had been convinced that religious based ceremonies were designed to exploit the purest of emotions. In my mind, funerals had always monetised on grief and its simplicity; why did I suddenly care about them now? The answer was: I didn't - I cared about the implications they held, the finality and coverage they provided. I wanted the knowledge that Sebastian had felt loved with his final breath. And God had he been loved.

Wait, final breath? That didn't seem right. Although it had been mere minutes since this fact was disclosed to me, Seb's death didn't sit well. It wasn't heartache or sorrow - it wasn't mourning. It felt like discomfort, like something didn't quite add up.

He was too young.

More questions dissolved on my tongue, each more desperate than the last. My mind was whirring within hazy confusion, working itself into a dizzy mess... until Sherlock spoke, raising more questions than he answered; "If I'd told you, you'd never have given me the information I needed."

His speech was cold, the antithesis of everything I'd built Sherlock up to be in my head. The comment was robotic, mechanical, drained of any ounce of care he had previously possessed.  _What information?_

"Why do you have this?"

As if he hadn't heard me, he returned, tone reminiscent of a detective, "I need you to tell me everything you know about Sebastian Moran."

I turned to face the man behind me, desperately searching his eyes for any indication that this was just some sort of elaborate ruse; his expression was the embodiment of seriousness, hard eyes, jaw clenched. This was the man who used to look at me like I held all the stars in his sky: he was some almighty figure for me to trust and cherish. His once warm eyes used to invite, calming anyone who gazed for long enough. Now the only thing they enlisted was truth. Bitter, cutting, ugly truth.

"I don't understand."

"Unsurprising."

"Why do you have these, Sherlock? Why are you analysing crime scenes? This isn't your job." 

"Hell, why does that matter?" He groaned, frustrated with my lack of understanding, "I can solve it! I can figure out who killed them, I just need to understand the finer details of their family. I just need you to tell me all you know."

"It wasn't an accident?"

"For god's sake, of course, it wasn't! Look at the angle of collision; don't they teach you anything? Someone had a motive to kill them - but not just one, all of them. Someone wanted to eradicate an entire family, but why?"

"Sherlock-"

"You know what," He snarled impatiently, "why don't I start you off:

"As made evident by this conversation, you were previously blissfully unaware of this situation. You repeatedly refused to comment on this boy, frequently avoiding my advances; you're still resentful that he left without explanation. In the few moments since you discovered these papers, you have not once invited me to verify your beliefs - you pride yourself on being self-assured, this trait being reinforced by your lack of questions throughout our relationship, bleeding into social and family life."

He paused. 

"You isolate yourself despite your underlying fear of being alone - a fear brought about by Moran's disappearance. You trusted him, unveiled your secrets to him, invited him into your life with open arms. You two were best friends-"

"No," I was holding Sebastian's photo now, smoothing out the folded corners with shaking fingers. 

"I'm sorry?"

"We weren't best friends," I stopped, tracing the outline of his passive face with my thumb, "We weren't... I wasn't his. 

"He laughed when John kissed me, at that party."

Sherlock seemed perplexed, "What-"

Laughing softly, emptily, I persisted, "My first kiss. John pretended to be sick; Seb laughed. At me. Clapped him on the back ."

"Jim, what are you talking about?"

The photo was wet,  _why was it wet_ , "I loved him, he loved the idea of me."

It was quiet for a moment. The quiet was short, but far from unwanted, stretched out for mere seconds and felt like minutes, hours. The absence of noise made it feel natural, like this conversation was as normal as discussing the weather; in an ideal world, it was. 

But it wasn't. 

My heart wrenched as I remembered the circumstances - Sherlock must have noticed too, eyes dipping momentarily to meet the floorboards. He broke the silence first, authenticating our unspoken words. 

"And now he's dead."

"Now he's dead."

I'd loved him: loved him like he was the air in my lungs, like he held the secrets to happiness in the palms of his hands - like he loved me back. Yet, in all these escapist fantasies I'd mass produced over the time he'd been away: the lying in fields, pointing at shapes in clouds; the hushed proclamations to the streetlights; the early morning pillow fights - I'd disregarded the overcast clouds present overhead; the broken lightbulbs; the smothering of the pillow cases, opting to ignore the unwanted for drowning in delusions. 

Now I was paying for it. Paying for it as the sun came up, burning through the curtains, as accentuated as a post-it note reminder; as the tide drew near, the waves grew stronger, the sea pulled me deeper. I was overflowing, suffocating, submerged in fallacies formulated to protect me. 

Strange.

In that moment, something seemed to snap inside of me - not so much like a twig cracking beneath feet, but like a tree collapsing in a forest: a rough, splintering kind of fracture, shredding my insides and revealing a broken shell.

It hurt, and it was strange, and I was laughing again. 

Something resonating deep in my being channelled the part that thrived on pain and sought to challenge my self-destructive tendencies, daring me to say it, to say those words, just for a reaction, just to be hurt. And, in that instant, I couldn't seem to prevent myself from complying. 

"I love you."

And despite the fact that I couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes as I said the words, that I couldn't quite stop the phrase from coming out mumbled, I knew it must be true, it  _had_  to be; it was the reason why, to me, his eyes looked like a sunrise; why I'd never felt as though I'd belonged anywhere until I felt his arms around me for the first time, with my spine left tingling against his ribs as he kissed my neck until I managed to shiver off my insecurities for a short while; why, if you dissected my entire being, everything inside my person would be engraved with Sherlock's signature; why  _still_ , with all lies out on the table, I'd never wanted anything as much as I wanted his lips on mine. 

"Love me?" He chuckled harshly, "You don't know anything about me!"

No. I shook my head, my eyes burning from desperately trying to hold back tears. That wasn't true, "I..."

"How old am I, Jim?" He asked bluntly, his eyes dark, "Do I have any siblings? When's my birthday?"

I don't know. I don't know. I don't fucking know. Shit.

"I don't..."

"See! You don't love me; you love the image of me you've created for yourself - the one you've blinded yourself with." 

Why was he saying this? 

No. No, no, no, no. This was just a dream; it  _had_  to be a bad dream. Like the dream where you think you're falling. The dream where the ground beneath your feet suddenly vanishes and you're convinced it's reality; you're falling so fast you can practically feel the air hitting your face. And for a moment you're certain that you're about to die because you're fucking free-falling and nothing else matters. You can't even begin to remember what was happening before because none of it matters. Then pure panic floods your thoughts as you find yourself inches from hitting the ground. You're going to die. You're about to die. 

But you don't,  _of course_ , you don't. You're dragged back to reality at the last possible second, bolting up in bed only to be comforted by your surroundings. 

That was all this was. 

Just falling. Just feeling.

And so I shook my head once again - finding that was the only goddamn thing I was capable of doing - and refused to accept the image before me. 

"This," Sherlock gestured to himself, "This isn't me, Jim. This is... Well, this is acting."

"Don't say that..." I whispered, still rejecting the concept that this was anything other than a nightmare.

"You're just a kid, Jim. I bet you haven't even stopped once to acknowledge how wrong this is."

"You think I don't know?" My voice was harsh all of a sudden, as though it didn't belong to me at all, "You think I don't remind myself of that every fucking day? You think it doesn't eat at me every single shitty second I endure on this godforsaken planet? I fucking know, Sherlock, and I let myself fall in love with you anyway."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have!" He yelled, filling the room with his voice before it fell deathly silent.

Everything stopped - noise, time, breathing, my heartbeat, my relationship with Sherlock. If you listened hard enough, you could hear my heart shattering. People assume that when your heart breaks it's one clean cut down the middle, but that's not the case. It splinters, making sure that each and every piece pierces the victim in every possible area - that's why it's so painful. 

"You should go," Holmes decided.

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Just go."

I stepped away from the man in front of me. I didn't recognise him. His once familiar face - the one I had memorised each and every inch of, had frequently noted resemblances between its features and works of art; I'd firmly believed he was built to be displayed in the Tate Modern, not a crappy classroom - had contorted into one I didn't recognise. He was a stranger to me, and that thought hurt more than any of the words exchanged.

Who said silence was golden? How could it possibly be so valued? All I wanted was to hear him say my name one more time, even if it was just a whisper. If I could hear his voice one last time I'd be fine. Because this silence was seeping into every pore, spreading through my body like a virus.

"Fine," I said finally, through gritted teeth, "fine."

I pushed passed him; he made no attempt to stop me - he wasn't going to. He didn't care about me, never had - he only cared about this stupid, little hobby of his. He was using me for information, and, using the last shred of dignity I had left, I refused to give it to him, to give him the satisfaction of winning. 

Fuelled by my anger, I flung the door open, only stopping when I felt a hand on my shoulder, dragging me backwards. Sherlock was stood there, resigned and complacent, eyes concentrated on the skull painting adorning the wall before him. In his hand, the hand that was held out just in front of my face, was a coat - his coat. The Belstaff acted only as a reminder that I was only wearing Sherlock's shirt and boxers; Sherlock was offering it for me to cover up. Nothing more. 

My heart sunk as I pulled the black material on quickly, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly exposed. And Sherlock was still just stood there. 

And so I took one last look.

Slamming the door behind me, I ran out of the once welcoming flat. I used to think of this building as a safe haven, but now the only was I could describe it was by comparing it to the ocean. There was so much left to explore, so many wonders and mysteries, and it was all just dying to be discovered. Yet going too deep would kill me. It would tear me apart piece by piece, limb from limb, and I knew that. And I still had a strong, unexplainable urge to explore - to reach the centre of Sherlock Holmes. But I couldn't, and I knew I couldn't. 

I hated the ocean.

As soon as I left the flat, I found myself leaning against the nearest wall. I couldn't hold the broken sobs back any longer, and so I let the tears fall, staining my cheeks like paintbrushes on a canvas. A canvas which displayed the mess that was Jim Moriarty.

Self-consciously, I brought my hands up to simultaneously wipe the tears and cover my face from passersby. 

It was cold, it was  _so damn cold_ ; a chill crawled up my bones and rested where Sherlock had touched me. 

I desperately wanted to hate him. He'd given me enough reasons to. I wanted to be able to say, to cry, to scream from the top of my lungs: " _I hate Sherlock Holmes_ ," and mean it, really, truly mean it, but I just couldn't.

Because I didn't. 

And if anything, I hated myself. 

 


End file.
